The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  Normally Maranas Madalin had written in a plain, level-headed style; he had not seemed much given to flights of fancy. But even so, he’d written about the Kieba’s prisoners turning into whispers of darkness. That had seemed unlikely to Gulien, when he’d read Maranas’s account.

  Now he looked across that Kieba’s wall himself and found all those old stories turning over in his mind until he was no longer certain what he believed. Now that he was here, Gulien found he was not quite so eager to meet the Kieba as he had imagined.

  But even now Caras might be hopelessly trying to defend against Tamaristan aggressors. And he had promised Oressa.

  The river was shallow enough to be easy to ford. Gulien left his horse by the river, in the shade of the cottonwood. He hobbled it, but lightly, with a string the animal could break if it was startled or became impatient. He heaved its saddle up onto the flat surface of the wall, where no one could miss it, and draped the bridle beside it. He hoped he would be able to reclaim both gear and horse very soon, but if anything prevented him, then at least the farmers who had been brave enough to plant crops here by the Kieba’s wall should find his gear when they came to check on their ripening wheat. That would be better than leaving a good saddle to be ruined by the sun and the weather.

  Then Gulien hopped up onto the wall, slung his legs over, and sat beside his saddle for a long moment. The mountain ran up and up before him, the slope easy at first and then steepening, gritty soil broken by rolling red stone. There was no path. Of course. But the climb did not look too forbidding.

  Except for what one might meet, of course, on the way.

  It was no use for him to sit here on this wall, too afraid to go forward and too stubborn to go back. Gulien took a deep breath, pushed himself off the wall, and dropped to the ground on the other side.

  Then he stood still for a long moment, waiting. But the Kieba did not appear in a whisper of dusk or a blaze of lightning, demanding to know what he thought he was doing. So he took a step, and then another, and at last, since he didn’t know whether one way was better than another, he simply walked up the slope by the easiest way he could see. He didn’t walk too quickly: He looked all around as he went, trying to see the wonders hidden beneath the gritty red soil. He saw nothing but wisps of tawny grasses and dwarfed scrub oak and feathery tamarisk. Nothing moved but wind and half a dozen quick-winged sparrows, brown and russet feathers almost lost against the sandy soil and dried grasses.

  Gulien wondered how long it would take a man to climb from the wall to the top of the mountain and whether a trespasser might reach the top without meeting any of the Kieba’s creatures, and what he might find there if he did. A shrine like the ones the common folk put up in memory of the dead gods, with a few grains of wheat scattered on the stone at its foot?

  Or a door, such as were said to stand here and there in the world: a door that would let a man step from the top of this mountain into some far country, Estenda or Markand or even Tamarist—that would be uncomfortable, for a Madalin—or some country farther yet, so far its very name had been forgotten. Gulien felt his pulse quicken at the thought. Though perhaps that was just the effort of climbing the mountain, which proved steeper than he had guessed from a distance. Besides, his father’s heir could hardly dare step through a magical doorway into some far country, no matter how strange and wonderful—

  Not twenty feet before him, a desert hare sat up on its hind legs and regarded Gulien out of dark eyes.

  Gulien stopped and stared at it. He knew at once that it wasn’t a real hare, but one of the Kieba’s creatures. It was larger and lankier than any ordinary hare—larger than a cat, almost as large as the feist dogs that farmers used to hunt hares. And the way it acted was definitely not the way an ordinary hare behaved. It sat bolt upright, its long ears attentively forward, its round eyes unblinking. Shafts of dazzling light came and went as high clouds slid through the afternoon sky, and the light glowed red in the eyes of the hare, making it look very much a creature of the gods.

  “Kieba?” Gulien said out loud, cautiously. He did not feel ridiculous speaking to a hare. It did not even occur to him until moments later that he might have felt ridiculous, and by then the hare had dropped down and begun lolloping slowly up the mountain, angling off to the side rather than heading directly up the slope. It did not look around, but Gulien was sure he did not mistake its invitation. He followed it, scrambling a bit for balance where the sand slipped underfoot.

  The hare led him around a jutting ridge of red stone where a twisted pine grew. There was a kind of path after all, though it was very rough; Gulien only gradually realized how flat stones had been laid along the downward edge and how the pines and scrub oaks marked the way. He followed the hare out onto an almost-level shoulder of the mountain where a sheer drop lay off to the right and the jagged, broken, nearly flat face of a cliff came down on the left, and there it stopped. It rose up on its hind legs again and stared at Gulien, its ears stiffly upright, and Gulien stared back at it for a moment, panting slightly with the climb, and then turned to gaze down at the endless drylands below. He could see the farm, too, the fields of crops and a man walking behind a team of mules, harvesting the earliest wheat, and farther away the farmhouses and barns and outbuildings. The farm looked peaceful and quiet and prosperous. Safe.

  No one in Carastind was safe if Tamaristan princes came across the Narrow Sea with fire and arquebus and sword. Unless the Kieba stopped them.

  Gulien turned back to the hare. He waited for it to speak in some human language, as the Kieba’s creatures were said to be able to speak. It only stared back at him, silent and motionless.

  At last he looked at the cliff and saw that it was actually a door. Then he wasn’t certain how he had mistaken it for an ordinary cliff at all. It was gritty red stone like any cliff, but veins of smoky crystal ran through it, as broad as his hand, clearly framing the doorway. The smooth dark crystal was . . . familiar . . . unexpectedly so, and Gulien reached without thinking to touch the fragment of similar crystal he wore as a pendant, carved into the falcon that was the sign of his family. He wrapped his fingers around the pendant falcon, reaching out with his other hand to lay his palm flat against the broadest streak of crystal running though the red stone.

  The crystal was warm under his hand, which might have been merely the warmth of the sun after a long day, but it seemed somehow like a living thing—it seemed almost to purr like a cat at his touch, though soundlessly. Then the stone framed within the crystalline doorway wavered and vanished in a wash of heavy heat, and Gulien shut his eyes and stepped forward, into the heat and out again into cool air. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

  He was standing, he found, in a huge and echoing hallway, floored and walled with dark, soapy crystal, nothing that looked like it had ever been carved out of the inside of a red sandstone mountain. In this hall stood a statue of every god and goddess that had ever lived, carved of cold white marble, or equally cold black, or now and then of polished jade or some dark red stone Gulien did not recognize. Every statue guarded a closed and dusty door, each door carved of stone to match its guardian. The doors were set into the statues’ plinths or framed by the fold of carven robes or defined by the grip of stone hands.

  The statues were all tall and beautiful, though many of the gods and goddesses had the heads of animals or birds. Gulien stared around at them, picking out familiar faces and forms among the many he did not know. There was dog-headed Eiròn, who had been the patron of truth and loyalty. Even today the people of Caras preferred dogs that possessed that elegant, narrow head and those pricked ears. He was glad to see the god; that familiar tilted head somehow looked friendly and welcoming even carved in cold marble. It was almost like recognizing a friend. And now he saw that beyond Eiròn stood the graceful hawk-headed goddess Tituvoel, her great wings arching up and up nearly to the ceiling. He knew her, too. She had been a goddess of wisdom and clear sight. But nearer at hand was the black marble statue of a
god that seemed nearly human, save for the delicately rendered scales, each dusted with gold, that surrounded his slit-pupiled eyes. Gulien had no idea who he was. He had never seen even an illustration. His fingers itched for paper and ink. It would have to be an illuminated drawing, to capture those scales—

  “Welcome, Gulien Madalin, to the Hall of Remembrance,” said a cold, clear voice out of the air. “Welcome to the Tomb of the Gods.” The voice was not loud, but it came from everywhere, as though the mountain itself were speaking

  Gulien flinched in startlement and stared all around, looking for the speaker. The hare watched him from a few feet away. But the voice had not come from the creature. It had come from the air—from all around. But he couldn’t see the Kieba, and it hadn’t been a woman’s voice anyway. Nor a man’s voice. Maybe the voice of a god . . . but all the gods were dead. Clearing his throat, he said cautiously, “You know my name, then. Will you tell me yours?”

  “I have no name,” stated the voice. “I am the kephalos. You are Gulien Madalin. Your primary identity is recognized. Your key is accepted. Your secondary identity has not been established. Please state your affiliation, your principal aspect, your subsidiary aspect, and your position.”

  Gulien had no idea what any of this meant. He guessed that his falcon pendant might have been taken as a kind of key, here in this place that seemed to have been carved entirely out of similar crystal. He stroked the pendant with a fingertip a little warily. He wanted to ask the mysterious kephalos whether this was what it meant when it referred to his key, but if he revealed his ignorance, perhaps it would decide he had no right to be here after all and send him away. So he said nothing.

  Years ago he had had the falcon carved out of a chance-found bit of crystal. He’d found the bit of crystal during one of Oressa’s adventures in the less-explored parts of the palace. He’d liked it and kept it and slept with it under his pillow. He’d believed it brought him dreams, or he’d told himself he believed that, having, as a child, a fancy for such mysteries. He’d dreamed of strange places, and of strange voices speaking to him in languages he didn’t know. Of course, everyone dreamed nonsense; he knew that. But he’d liked the crystal, the feel of it against his skin, and so he’d had the falcon carved from it.

  And now he stood within a mountain that seemed to have been carved out of the same kind of crystal. That lent a different color to all his dreams, which now he wished he’d written down so that he might remember them better. But he couldn’t recall . . . he didn’t think he could recall . . . anything about a—or the—kephalos.

  The voice that had spoken to him didn’t sound like a living person, but he could not quite imagine what else it might be: a servant of the Kieba’s, a companion, or like her, an immortal who once had been a god, or something else entirely? What did it mean that it had no name? What kind of title was “kephalos”? He hesitated, not certain what he should say, or ask. He said at last, cautiously, “May I speak to the Kieba?”

  “Your affiliation is to the Kieba,” said the kephalos, not like a question, but as though Gulien had answered a question. “Accepted. Your principal aspect is: undefined. Your subsidiary aspect is: undefined. Your position is: ancillary. Follow the golem.”

  Plainly this meant the hare, which laid back its long ears, swiveled around, and lolloped gently away among the statues, seeming almost as out of place in this hall as Gulien felt.

  Gulien, his heart beating hard in his chest, took one step forward. Nothing happened. So he walked forward, not too fast, following the hare as the voice had commanded. Toward the Kieba, he hoped. He did not know what the kephalos was, but the Kieba . . . He didn’t know her, but she cured plagues and outlawed slavery and created crops that flourished in the drylands, and she had been the patron of the Madalin family and of Carastind for a long time. Surely all that outweighed her reputation for dealing harshly with trespassers. And her mountain had opened for him. He hoped she might be easier to talk to than the disembodied voice of the kephalos. He hoped she would be willing to talk about Carastind and Tamarist and not just about mysterious aspects and affiliations.

  He knew he should think only about finding the Kieba and putting his case—Carastind’s case—to her, but he could not resist laying his hand on dog-headed Eiròn’s door when he passed it. More than a little to his surprise, the door shimmered and vanished at his touch, leaving only the frame still standing. Gulien stepped back quickly, then stopped, staring, caught by the astonishing glimpse of a birch wood where a path floored with golden leaves led from the god’s door, down and down, turning back and forth across the foothills of unfamiliar mountains. Far below he could see the slender white towers of a strange, beautiful city. Beyond the city, sharp ranks of lavender-shadowed mountains stretched up and out forever.

  Looking up at the mountains made Gulien feel faintly dizzy. Looking down at the many-tiered towers of the city made him feel nervous and excited. He took a step forward without even thinking, longing to walk down that mountain path and explore the white city. But of course he couldn’t. For any number of reasons. He shook his head, letting out his breath in a long sigh.

  “Kansai,” said the kephalos, its tone as flat and inexpressive as ever. But it did not seem offended that Gulien had opened the door, and the hare paused and turned and sat up tall, watching him with patient dark eyes. The kephalos said, “The city lies across the ocean, in Gontai.”

  “Which ocean?” It couldn’t mean the Narrow Sea, because only Tamarist lay across the Narrow Sea, and beyond Tamarist only the remnants of barbarian tribes in lands too poor for Tamarist to bother conquering. And Gulien knew there was no city like that or mountains like those in Tamarist.

  “The Altannac Ocean.”

  Gulien shook his head. He had never heard of it. He said softly, “Could I go there? Not now, but someday? Meet the people who live there . . .”

  “Kansai is empty. The city has lain empty for one hundred and seven years.”

  “Empty? But—”

  “The Kieba failed her principal aspect. There was a plague. She did not find its cure.” The kephalos didn’t sound upset or angry or judgmental. Its tone didn’t change at all, even on such a statement.

  Gulien said, stunned, “They all died? All those people died?” It had never occurred to him that sometimes the Kieba might actually fail to cure a plague. That sometimes a whole city might die. He said again, “How could that happen?” He started walking again without waiting for an answer, following the hare past a goddess he knew—Ailerel, patron of scholars, with a stylus in her hand and a grave expression on her round, almost feline face—and past two gods he did not know, one with the head of a boar and bristles down his back and the other almost human except for a peculiar delicacy of bone and delicately pointed ears. To his right stood one of Gulien’s favorite gods, fierce Eneolioir, who had a feathered crest instead of hair, talons on his hands instead of nails, and high-arching wings that stretched up so high they almost brushed the ceiling of the gods’ hall. Eneolioir was supposed to have been the patron of justice. Gulien felt reassured to see him standing here, although of course the god was dead and men must make their own justice, which sometimes seemed in short supply. He said, “Kephalos? How could that happen? I thought the Kieba never failed to stop a plague.” He had believed she never failed. It was unsettling to learn otherwise.

  “The plague was unfamiliar to the Kieba,” explained the kephalos. “It shared few sequences or modes or characteristics with any of the plagues filed in the vault.”

  At this Gulien paused again. “A vault of plagues,” he said. His voice came out flat and expressionless, even to his own ear.

  “Before you,” said the kephalos. “Where the golem is waiting. That is Ysiddre, and beyond her, Ysiddro.”

  The two goddesses, standing here at the far end of the hall, a little separated from the other statues, were identically tall and slim and goat-headed. Each held her hands out, palms upward, and each carried a slim sickle moo
n in one hand and a full moon in the other. They looked exactly alike, until Gulien realized all at once that the statue of Ysiddre radiated a wash of pale silvery light, while Ysiddro’s statue was half hidden in the shadows. The hare sat directly between the twin goddesses, seeming no more familiar and hardly more mortal than they.

  “Ysiddre was allied to mortal people,” stated the kephalos. “She strove to protect the world. When she knew she must die, she made this place, and made me to inhabit it and guard it and keep its memories. Her doorway leads to the heart of the mountain, where memory is layered above memory and the Kieba now dwells. You must pass Ysiddre’s doorway to speak to the Kieba. You may pass.”

  Gulien nodded. “But the vault of plagues?”

  “Ysiddro was Ysiddre’s sister and ally. Her doorway leads to the vault of plagues, for only in understanding each plague may it be destroyed. The Kieba is Ysiddro’s affiliate and takes her aspects of healing and death.”

  Gulien saw that it did make sense, disturbing as the whole idea was. A vault of plagues! But he did not argue. He asked instead, “The goddess made you? What are you?”

  “I am the kephalos.”

  Gulien wondered what exactly that meant. He wished he might linger and ask. He wished to ask a hundred questions, a thousand, but he knew he had to find the Kieba and ask her only one question: whether she would help Carastind against her attackers.

  Ysiddre’s door would take him to the Kieba, apparently. The door stood to the right of the goddess. It was of white marble struck through with veins of smoky quartz and amethyst. Its knob was crystal and the new moon stood above its lintel. The hare moved toward it, and it swung slowly open, revealing a stairway that rose toward misty light in a tight spiral, each step carved of the same amethyst-threaded marble. Gulien stared at this stairway. Then he left the hare, which leaped up one stair at a time while he delayed a moment to walk around the twin statues and both their doors and came back around to peer once more up the spiral stairway. It was quite wonderful: a stair that existed only if one looked through the goddess’s doorway and not if one peered around it into the shadows. Light that glimmered above the stairway but shed no light into this hall.