The Silences of Home

by The Silences of Home (v5. 0) (epub)

  He had stopped when a large straight branch blazed down to land at his feet. He seemed to start awake. He looked down at his sword and his skin, looked up at the flames that seemed to beat against the moon. And he had run again—out of the Queenswood, away from the palace, down among the houses of the city, which still stood quiet and dark.

  His feet carried him toward the great southern gate. Beyond it lay sand and rock and freedom—space in which to dissolve and forget. But as he ran, he remembered that this gate would be guarded by scribes and selkesh, all of them facing into the city awaiting the great battle that would soon spill from the palace. Pentaran had come to a sudden stumbling halt. Not the desert—not yet. The wells instead, one last time. He would travel below the city wall, and perhaps he would meet up with someone else who was fleeing the terrible thing that had been done this night. He had found a well in a wide, empty square. As he had pulled himself up and in, he had heard the first echoing notes of the Queensbell. For a time he heard it beneath as well, as he worked his way through the tunnels with his body pressed against the wall. There was nothing but blackness here. After who knew how long, he had seen a light ahead: the main tunnel, a stretch he knew so well, after all these years of sneaking and spying and feeling important. He had slithered over the wet ledge—past the place where he had stood guard so many times—and into the library chamber, thinking, Almost there—almost away.

  Baldhron had turned to him immediately, even though Pentaran had tried to be very quiet. “Come here!” Baldhron had cried in a high, wavering voice. Pentaran had taken a step back—just a tiny one, but Baldhron had leapt to his feet with a dagger in his hand, which was steady. Pentaran realized that his own sword was gone, and he had no memory of where he had dropped it, or why. “I’d kill you, Pentaran, and be happy to do it. But I need you—I’m gathering up the most vital of our accounts, especially the oldest and the most recent. The tablets may survive a bit of water—the parchment I’m not so certain about, but we need to try. Come here now and help me.”

  Pentaran had been tearing open bags since then, sifting desperately through scrolls he could hardly read, drawing out ones he hoped would please Baldhron, who was obviously mad, and still gripping his dagger. Mad! This man, whom Pentaran had loved since Baldhron had found him begging, starving, and brought him here, fed him with bread and words. . . . He would try to be quick, speak a few calm and calming words that would convince Baldhron of the need to leave this place. But Pentaran’s fingers were clumsy and slow, and he had not been able to speak a word since he had thrown open the door to that first Queensfolk house.

  “Faster, you fool!” screeched Baldhron, and Pentaran sobbed again, and wondered why he could make this sound but not words. When he paused to draw a shaking breath, he heard another sound, a muffled slapping: wet feet on stone.

  Baldhron stood and turned his head to the entrance. He listened only briefly before he thrust his dagger into his belt and tied two sacks beside it. He dove, so gracefully that Pentaran felt his own body fuse with the ledge. I can’t, he thought. He was so clumsy in water, so slow as he flailed and strained even the short distance from well to tunnel. Get up! Follow him! But Baldhron was the river; Pentaran was only clay.

  “Pentaran!” A woman’s voice, very deep, pulsing with strength and fury that only seemed to increase as the vaulted walls sent the name back in echo. Pentaran’s leaden limbs were air now. He twisted around, his nerveless arms trailing scrolls. He watched them fall and bob, light as leaves. One was so close to him that he could see the lines a writing stick had made, rows and rows of them, all blurring and bleeding. He looked down at the single scroll he had managed to hold on to and saw its letters, shaped by urgency and a kind of love.

  “Pentaran.” Her voice was not as loud or as low as it had been. “Where is he?”

  He thought of the parchment made empty, and the desert that opened against the sky so far away. He rose, pressing the scroll against his chest, and looked at her.

  “He’s gone,” he said clearly and quickly. “You won’t find him, Galha. You’ll never find everyone who—” and then the arrows sang his ringing voice to silence.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Queen, Galha, daughter of Pradnadhen, sends this message to her servants in Fane, both as information and as command.

  On the night of the first full moon after the month of late rains, Luhr, greatest city in the Queensrealm, was attacked by Raiders from the sea. They numbered in the thousands, all fierce and well armed, and oblivious to the ways of civilized folk. The army massed within the jungle and beset Luhr in the depths of night, when all its residents were abed. The Sea Raiders overpowered the guards at the gates and swept up into the city, and before an alarm could be raised, they had forced their way into the very palace. It must be admitted that some Queensguards were unprepared, slain while sleeping at their posts or relaxing in a manner unbecoming of the Queen’s chosen caretakers. However, it must also be stressed that this city and indeed this land have ever been blessed by peace, and the Queen forgives those who were taken unawares, for they were victims only of the comfort of her rule.

  As the warning bell tolled, Queensguards turned the Raiders back and pressed them out again into the desert. The city dwellers were waking now, some of them walking into the streets, but most hiding themselves and their families in the darkness of their homes. The ones who did emerge were the first to hear of the terrible tragedy that had unfolded before the gates. The Princess Ladhra, beloved only daughter of the Queen, had been one of the first to join the fight against the attackers. She rode out to Luhr’s gates and awaited the ones who were fleeing—and she cut them down with sword and bow. As the moon began its descent, the stream of Raiders abated. The Princess looked down and saw one who yet lived. She urged her horse to his side and bent to see him better—and in this moment the Raider sprang from the ground, hale and strong, and stabbed her again and again, with the dagger he had held concealed beneath his body.

  There were other Queensfolk at the gates by this time. They saw the Princess Ladhra’s murder and subdued her killer, and they carried both back into the city. The common folk heard the tidings of her death and grieved for the woman who would have been their next ruler. Queen Galha, who had remained to defend the palace and had been unaware of her daughter’s actions, looked on Ladhra with dignified sorrow and righteous fury. The Sea Raider begged for his life and told the Queen much: his name—Leish—and that of his land, and where it lay. She contained her fury and spared him, knowing that he would be of use to her. Scores of other Sea Raiders died at her hand, yet she knew that still others had fled early into the desert and escaped punishment. And so Queen Galha swore vengeance upon Leish and all the people of Nasranesh, across the Eastern Sea.

  The fastest route to the Eastern Sea is overland to the Sarhenna River and thence by boat to Fane; this is the way the Queen will take in pursuit of the Sea Raiders. She has written to her servants in all the port towns of the realm and commanded them to send any boats and ships that may be fit for an ocean voyage. She writes to Fane as well, and with greater urgency. Your ships too will be required, and your harbour will be the gathering place for the fleet that will sail with the Queen at its head. She will make haste to Fane, and you must be ready to greet her and assist her through the weeks of preparation that will follow. Make ready for battle, in the name of Queen Galha, and in the name of Ladhra, who has died for this land that is strong and unbroken.

  Lanara set the scroll down. It was so long that only its ends curled inward; the rest lay flat on the table. Malhan’s words were stark and far too easy to read, even by accident, when her eyes swept over them and up to the face of the Queensguard who was standing beside her. She looked at him as the Queensbell tolled on and on, jarring as a fist against her ribs.

  “Wine,” the guard said to someone behind him. “Quickly. Better make it unwatered.”

  “Lanara,” Nellyn said, and she turned to him
. There they all were: Nellyn and Aldron and Alea. Lanara was surprised that they were still sitting on the cushioned bench where they had been before she unrolled the scroll with the Queen’s seal upon it. Everything seemed the same: her friends, with their worn travelling clothes and wind-chapped skin; this room, with its tapestries and painted woodwork, and the thick glass window overlooking the wharf and water. Even her body felt the same: bruised and weary from the wagon that had jolted them down into the streets of Fane, where people had been running and calling news she had refused to believe—until she walked into this room and saw the faces of the Queensguards who were waiting for her.

  She tried to smile at Nellyn. It was what she would have done if everything had not changed. “It’s true,” she said, “what we heard on our way here, about the attack, and Ladhra”—and then she laid her head against the scroll and waited for understanding, or a darkness that would enfold her, like sleep.

  Lanara seemed a bit better after the wine. Nellyn held the cup for her, at first, but after a few swallows she took it from him, and her hand was steady. He glanced down at the scroll and saw that some of its words were smudged. Perhaps she had cried after all, though he saw no trace of tears on her cheeks or in her eyes. Perhaps it had only been her skin or clothing, lying on the letters and blurring them when she moved.

  The short plump Queensguard asked her if she and her friends would like to spend the night here, in this house that was the Queen’s place in Fane. Lanara replied, “No, though I thank you for your kindness. Queen Galha sent me here to assume command of the signal tower, and I intend to do so immediately.”

  “Ah,” the guard began, “yes, a commendable intention, but the cliff path, you see, is hardly—”

  “Please,” Lanara interrupted, and Nellyn was relieved to hear a familiar strength in her voice, “have someone lead us there now. We are seasoned travellers and will be able to climb the path.” But then they all rose, and Lanara swayed and sat again, and although he thought Maybe just the wine, Nellyn’s relief vanished.

  He held her around the waist as they went down the stairs. When they stepped outside, she lifted his arm away and smiled at him, too brightly. But everything here is too bright, he thought, and I am tired, not seeing as I usually do. He looked up at the house, which was very tall and broad. Behind it was a courtyard and a stable, where they had left horse and wagon. This house was the only one on the wharf made of stone. There were shapes in the stone, edged and curved, and painted in green and blue. The other houses were wooden, their planks scarlet or yellow or orange. The doors were painted as well, and seemed brighter than the houses themselves. Nellyn thought he knew why the paint and roof tiles were so vivid: if they had not been, Fane’s buildings would have been swallowed by the glare of the sea and sky. Lanara had turned to him when their wagon had come to the cliff road and they had first glimpsed the ocean. She had smiled at his expression, lifted his hand to her lips, kissed him on each knuckle. “The end of the river,” she had said. He had remembered his small, bright river, and the silver-leafed trees on the other side, and his certainty that this river was all, here by the red clay huts. He had remembered the water of his town with a love that was like pain, on the icy road above the sea—for he had been wrong. All the shonyn were wrong. Here was water so vast and changing and terrible that any shonyn looking on it would feel the world’s circle break. Nellyn had looked and trembled, and drawn Lanara in against him. “Thank you,” he had whispered. The wool of her cap had scratched his lips.

  He tried to look at the sea again now, as he followed her along the wharf, but the crowd around them was thick, and beyond the crowd were the boats, creaking at the docks. Lanara and the Queensguard walked together, Nellyn behind, and Aldron and Alea behind him; there was no room for more than two to walk abreast. People milled and called to one another. Some reached out to Lanara and the Queensguard, whose blue-and-green clothing marked them as Queensfolk. “The Queen—is she near?” Nellyn heard, and “Tell us of the Princess!” Someone grasped Nellyn’s cloak, and he wrenched it away without turning back.

  The crowd thinned as they approached the southern harbour arm. Nellyn took a deep, steadying breath when he stepped onto the cliff path. There was no one here, and the noise from the wharf seemed muted, the air more open and fresh. The path was just a track, really, like the ones he and Lanara had seen on mountainsides, beaten down by goats and other climbing animals. He kept his right hand on the cliff wall and did not look at the sea; he had discovered in Luhr that he did not like being far above the ground. And yet, he thought as he squinted at the frozen mud at his feet, this signal tower is on a cliff. He swallowed. In order to distract himself from how steeply the track was climbing, he stared at Lanara. She was walking quickly and confidently, without looking back—and this worried him as her too-cheery smile had. She knew his fear and usually tried to calm him (in the mountains she had insisted on taking a longer, lower way, when he had balked at the height of the quicker path). She did not turn to him now, or slow her pace so that he would be able to catch up. She is alone in her mind, he thought, somewhere else—not here.

  “Nellyn,” Alea said, and he felt her hand on his stooped back. “Are you all right?”

  He straightened and smiled over his shoulder at her. “Yes. Afraid, but all right.” He saw that she was leaning heavily against the rock, and his fear for himself ebbed. “And you? How is the baby? Are you tired?”

  “The baby is poking me, probably because I’ve stopped walking. And I’m not too tired—though I am looking forward to sitting down whenever we reach this signal tower of yours.”

  “So let’s reach it,” Aldron said, resting his chin on Alea’s left shoulder, “before it’s time for the baby to be born. Go! Go!”

  The path ended abruptly. Nellyn lost sight of Lanara around yet another jutting corner of rock. He edged his way around it as smoothly as he could, and suddenly there was no path before him—a broad flat place instead, with the signal tower rising up from it like a stone tree. Aldron gave a long high whistle between his teeth when he stepped onto the cliff ledge. Alea squatted with both hands on her belly and looked up, and up.

  The tower was square at its base and circular as it rose, and there was a dome of glass at its top. Sunlight flashed from the dome so intensely that Nellyn had to look away from it. Small windows dotted the stone, which was painted in red and gold bands splotched with the grey-green of some sort of plant. The door was wooden, as were the structures that jutted from the tower’s base: a shack with no windows, and, higher up, a casement hung with brown cloth. Each window was concealed by shutters.

  “Better not venture out there,” Aldron commented to Nellyn, pointing at two wooden balconies that ran all the way around the tower near the top. “A dizzy spell might pitch you into the sea.” Nellyn nodded and looked past Aldron. He saw only sky where the ledge fell away. He tried to breathe. “The river is within you. Seek it out when you are not calm.” There is no river, he thought. The shonyn are wrong. Though it does not matter, since I am no longer shonyn. . . .

  “Nellyn!” He swung his head around and focused slowly on Lanara. She was standing at the door, which was now open. “Come,” she said, and held out her hand. A familiar, comforting gesture—but when he reached her, her eyes leapt away from his, and her fingers barely touched him before she drew them away again.

  It was very dark inside the tower despite the candles that burned on shelves and countertops. There was a pungent odour in the air; Nellyn put a hand over his nose and mouth.

  “That’ll be the tallow you smell,” said a female voice quite close to him. “Years and years of tallow, for the signal light and for these rooms down below. You’ll soon hardly notice it.”

  His vision was sharpening. He saw the woman, who was large and round and had light hair that might have been blonde or white. An old man stood behind her, leaning on a piece of wood as tall as his waist. He took a shambling step toward the
m and Nellyn saw that he was shonyn-height—short, for a Queensman—and slight as a wading bird. His tunic was blue and green, and his sleeves and leggings were stitched with ribbons of the same colour—though they were faded, threadbare clothes, and larger than he was.

  “I am Drelha,” said the woman. “And this is my father, Peltanan, tender of Fane’s signal tower since he was a young man in the service of Queen Galha’s blessed grandmother. Me, I was born here,” she continued, leading them toward a staircase that spiralled up from the tower’s centre. “Never imagined I’d be leaving, either, and certainly not at my age and to wed a townsman. But that I am, and may every spinster rejoice and take hope from it. Come, Father, get behind them and we’ll take them up and show them what’s to do. His body’s slower now, you see, and it’s mostly me that does the hard work, but his mind’s as quick as ever. Isn’t that right, Father?” Nellyn heard a grunt from the back of the line. “Now, then—that below was the kitchen—and this level’s for sleeping. . . .”

  Drelha talked on and on. Nellyn stopped attempting to follow her words. He looked mostly at Lanara, though he did try once or twice to see was Drelha was pointing to. The two sleeping levels were as dim as the kitchen had been. He caught glimpses of low beds, tables, a gleaming pitcher and basin set on a chest beneath a shuttered window. They were bare spaces, though, other than the few pieces of furniture; the barest he had seen since leaving his own hut, with its curtain and pallet.