The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  The hare was out of sight. But he did not immediately step through the doorway to follow it. Instead, he turned, as though drawn, toward the other door.

  The door to the vault of plagues stood to Ysiddro’s left, one side of its frame formed from the folds of her stone robe. It was black marble threaded with veins of white and smoke-gray crystal; its doorknob was black iron. He wondered if it would open to a stairway of black marble that led down and down into the shadowed depths of the mountain. It seemed to him that would be appropriate. He started to touch it, then hesitated, fearing it might open and plagues pour out upon the world.

  “Touch it, if you wish,” the kephalos suggested.

  “It’s safe?”

  “The plagues are not so easily freed.”

  So Gulien, curious, touched the iron doorknob. Unexpected cold lanced up his fingers all the way to his elbow. He bit back a yelp, jerking away, but the cold did not fade. His whole arm burned and ached. “Kephalos!” he said. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “So Ysiddro’s door is not yet keyed to your hand,” said the kephalos, its tone as flat and neutral as ever.

  Gulien set his teeth. He didn’t understand, and he was angry, but he tried to set that aside. He was sure anger was dangerous, sure that defying the kephalos must be dangerous. He had entered the mountain knowing it was a place of peril for mortal men. He couldn’t argue that he hadn’t known. He rubbed the back of his hand, very gently. The burn was beginning to subside to a sharp prickle, but his hand still felt tender, as though he had held it too near a fire. He asked, “What does touching Ysiddro’s door do to a man?”

  “Less to you than to many,” said the kephalos, not sounding at all concerned. “Take Ysiddre’s stair and inquire of the Kieba.”

  Gulien shook his head, but he went up the white stairway. Toward the Kieba. He tried to steady his nerves and think what to say to her, though he was distracted by the increasingly painful tingling that ran up and down his arm. He tried to ignore that. He felt he was walking up into a story, into legend, into the time of the gods.

  The stairway ended at last in a small chamber that had been carved entirely out of the gray crystal. Nothing was in the chamber except a single chair, too small and plain to call a throne, carved out of the same soap-smooth crystal, and beyond the chair, a low dais of the same crystal. The chair and the dais and the entire room seemed to have been carved all in a piece out of the heart of the mountain: There were no visible seams anywhere. There were three doors evenly spaced around the chamber—no, two doors. No . . . Gulien looked again and all the walls were smooth and featureless, broken by no doors at all. He turned quickly to look behind him, but the door through which he had come was gone as well. But when he turned again, slowly this time, the Kieba was there.

  She was smaller than he had expected, and younger than he had expected, and far less human than he had expected. He knew, everyone knew, that the Kieba had once been a goddess and was still immortal. But he had not understood how little like a mortal woman she would be. She did not have wings or a cat’s head or anything of that sort, but her cheekbones were sharp in her too-thin face, her mouth was narrow and her lips thin, her eyes enormous and a strange color, not really a color at all, translucent as water. When he looked in them, he saw nothing he recognized. Nothing human, or mortal, or approachable.

  The Kieba was seated in the chair, her back straight, her arms resting along its arms, her long, bony fingers curling across the carved finials. She sat perfectly still, as though she had grown out of that chair, crystal herself, and only just taken on the color and warmth of life. She gazed at Gulien with a disinterested expression, as though she only half saw him and did not care for him at all. If she was breathing, he could not tell it. She did not speak. A marble statue could not have looked less welcoming. The hare sat upright at her side, its long ears turned forward, its dark eyes fixed on Gulien’s face.

  Now that he faced her, Gulien had no idea what to say to her. He finally bowed, neatly, rescued by his father’s training: A prince learned to always be graceful and never show when he was at a loss. “Kieba,” he said. He made sure his tone was quiet and respectful, as though he spoke to his father. Then he waited for her response.

  “Prince Gulien,” answered the Kieba. She tilted her head to look at him, but there was something wrong about the way she moved: quick and abrupt, a little like a bird rather than a mortal woman.

  Gulien flinched and blinked. He realized he had half expected that she would ignore him—that he had half believed she was a statue after all. But her voice was more human than her appearance. Her tone was neutral, almost indifferent, but its timbre was that of an ordinary living person. He said, “Kieba, I have come to ask—”

  “You laid your hand to Ysiddro’s door and took injury of it,” she interrupted him. “The kephalos informs me. Not a great injury, but potentially distracting.” She looked Gulien up and down, as though she could look directly through his skin to his jumping nerves. Perhaps she could. It was impossible to tell whether she meant the injury distracted Gulien or herself.

  “I—”

  “The kephalos should have prevented you. Sometimes its inclinations are obscure,” said the Kieba. She held out her hand, and a short, thick rod about the length of Gulien’s forearm fell out of the air and into her hand. Gulien stared at it, and at her. It was a caduceus. He recognized it, though he had never seen one. They were not the most rare of the artifacts of the gods, but they were among the most prized. The loss of the Madalin caduceus had been the worst of the many damages inflicted on his family by his own great-grandfather’s improvident rule: That had been a loss to everyone in Caras.

  This one was longer and more heavily ornamented than the one that had belonged to the Madalin family. It was about as thick as Gulien’s thumb, made of twisted black iron with a thread of black crystal running around it from one end to the other. From the way the Kieba held it, Gulien guessed it must be heavier than it looked. The Kieba traced a fingertip down the line of the crystal, from one end of the rod to the other and back again. Then she met Gulien’s eyes and held out her hand in clear command.

  After a moment Gulien obediently set his hand in hers. The nerves twitched and jumped under his skin, and her touch burned as though her skin contained fire rather than mortal flesh, but he tried not to let himself flinch. The Kieba grasped his wrist firmly and drew the tip of the caduceus quickly down his arm, from elbow to palm. Then she did it again. First the tingling came back, but not unpleasantly; then the cold numbness faded. Warmth flushed through his arm, then through his whole body. Gulien let his breath out in a long sigh.

  “So,” said the Kieba. She let him go abruptly and set the caduceus aside, laying it down on empty air as though on a side table; rather than falling to the floor, it vanished.

  Gulien stared after it. Then he met the Kieba’s opaque gaze and began. “Thank you—”

  “Do not thank me,” the Kieba said flatly. “The injury was slight. I do not know why the kephalos was concerned. You would most likely have recovered in some small measure of time without aid.” She lifted one hand slightly to signify dismissal and went on. “You have come to ask me to intervene for Madalin against the Garamanaji princes. I am aware of events in Tamarist and in Carastind. I am not surprised that your father sent you to me. But I am surprised that Osir Madalin would expect me to be swayed by any request of his.”

  “There is more than one Tamaristan prince?” said Gulien, trying to decide whether this was good or bad and finding it on the whole unwelcome news. The various princes might quarrel with one another and that might be useful, but he feared they would ally against Carastind and that would surely be very bad. He collected himself and looked the Kieba in the face. “I ask your pardon, Kieba, that I must correct your misapprehension, but my father did not send me. I came on my own. I must beg you to excuse my boldness in trespassing upon your privacy. You know everything already, so you must also know I had no choice but
to come. If you will not help us, we will surely be defeated.”

  “Why should that matter to me?” asked the Kieba.

  Gulien bit his tongue hard to keep from exclaiming out loud. He said at last, “My father has indeed offended you somehow, then. I feared that might be so. Tell me now what amends I can make, Kieba, that will restore my family and my people to your favor.”

  “If you recovered Parianasaku’s Capture for me, I would favor Carastind. You cannot. Your father will not give it to you, you cannot take it, and if you did, you would not give it to me. No Madalin will give up Parianasaku’s Capture. It was most unwisely bonded to the blood of the kings of your line.”

  Gulien tried not to stare at her. He dropped his gaze to the floor, rapidly running through the whole list of fragmentary artifacts his family had ever collected, whether known to contain splinters of the dead gods’ power or otherwise, but he could not think of anything with that name. He began at last. “Kieba, I assure you—”

  “It was a gift to the Madalin line,” the Keiba told him, sharply impatient. “Well intentioned, to be sure, and it seemed harmless at the time, even wise. A gift to aid folk to flourish here in the drylands; one could see no harm in that, and much good. It is always better to establish towns and nations as widely as possible, lest one lose too much when one city or nation perishes. And the drylands are not quite so susceptible to plagues as gentler country.”

  Gulien thought at once of the empty city of Kansai, the white towers pristine and dead. He felt chilled at the implication that such disasters might have happened before, perhaps more than once—that they might not even be rare.

  The Kieba was going on, her voice no more expressive than before. “Even allowing Parianasaku’s Capture to bind to the blood of one Carastindin king and then another seemed well enough at the time; artifacts such as the Capture must be fed and tended to maintain potency. For many years your ancestors put it to good use drawing in the spring rains, gentling the midsummer dust storms away from your croplands, capturing the winter mists. All this was well enough. But now Osir Madalin has discovered a secondary function of Parianasaku’s Capture and put the artifact to a use for which it was not intended. Thus he has created a situation which is even now causing me considerable difficulty. Your father’s attempts to capture and control plagues might be laudable, if pursued with the proper tools and an accurate understanding for the inevitable complications. Neither of which he possesses. Fortunately, a suitable recourse now presents itself, as clearly one or another of the Garamanaji princes will shortly relieve Osir of his crown. That will end the terms under which Parianasaku’s Capture was lent. Then I will recover it without difficulty.”

  Gulien protested, “But—”

  “It was bonded to your family for so long as your family should rule,” the Kieba said flatly. “Those were the terms of the gift. It exists half in Osir Madalin’s flesh, half in his mind, and hardly at all in the world. Thus I cannot simply take it. He must give it to me. And he will not. Perhaps he cannot.”

  “Kieba, I would give—”

  “You say so now. But you cannot take the Capture save if you take the kingship of Carastind. And if you should do so, if the artifact should forsake your father and enter your blood and bond to your flesh, what then, Gulien Madalin? Do you think you would be able to give it up then?”

  This was more and more disturbing. Gulien hardly knew how to answer.

  The Kieba went on. “Now Osir Madalin puts it to serious misuse. A plague your father cast out of Caras now burns in Elaru. Worse, it has attained a far more virulent form because of his mishandling. Worst of all, it possesses a long latency, or it would never have spread so widely before I discovered it. I warned him. I did warn him most strictly. Now he does this. Perhaps I will be able to destroy the plague, or perhaps I must burn a firebreak about Elaru and allow those within the city to die, lest it spread. Then there would be two dead cities in Gontai. So you see I have little fondness now for Osir Madalin.”

  “I understand. I am sorry, Kieba, for the errors my father has made. I swear I had no idea of this. But, Kieba, I would give up this artifact,” Gulien promised her. “I—”

  “You would not. And even if you would, it is not yours. You are not king.”

  The Kieba sounded completely inflexible. Gulien had heard that tone many times from his father. When his father used that tone, everyone knew he would not change his mind. But the Kieba was not Osir Madalin. Maybe she could be swayed. Gulien paused and then began again, carefully respectful. “Your anger with my father may be just, Kieba, but are you so angry you will leave all the people of Carastind to suffer under a foreign king? Is that just?”

  The Kieba lifted her eyebrows almost imperceptibly. “Kingdoms rise and fall, young prince, and it matters very little. Your family has done well by Carastind in the past, but families, too, rise and fall. It is a mistake to grow too fond.”

  Gulien had no idea how to answer that. He took a step forward, holding out his hands in urgent entreaty. “Kieba, the people of Carastind do not know that you have decreed they should become a subject people! They will fight. They may be fighting even now. Even weakened by the spring plague, our men will fight to protect their families, to keep their wives and their children from being made the slaves of a foreign king. And well they should! All know how folk live in Tamarist: poor and unlettered, forbidden to take up arms though brigands prey upon them. Will you leave my people, who are your own people too, to suffer—”

  “You will not sway me, young prince.”

  Gulien knew he had to sway her. He said forcefully, “Kieba, as my father has offended you, dispossess him! As the Madalin line has lost your confidence, dispossess us. Then you may take back your artifact at your pleasure.” He found he dared not think too closely about what he was suggesting. He went on quickly. “Only set some symbol of your power between Tamarist and my people before you tear down the Madalin falcon—let all the Garamanaji princes see that your hand is between their ambition and the people of Carastind. Then they will take their quarrels elsewhere, and you may choose another king for us from among our own people. Anyone who pleases you. There must be a man of Carastind who would please you!”

  The Kieba shrugged, a minimal gesture. “Allowing a Tamaristan prince to throw down the Madalin falcon is far simpler. I must attend to Elaru.”

  “But—”

  “The plague there, Prince Gulien, is one for which your father is directly responsible, and even now I delay working with it to speak with you.”

  Prince Gulien opened his hands, pleading, casting aside pride. “Kieba! I swear I will bring you this artifact. I will take it from my father and bring it to you. I will set it into your hands myself. You need not trouble yourself at all! If you are angry with my father, with my house, then let your anger fall on my father and on my house. But”—he straightened as a new thought struck him and said, still more urgently—“Kieba, leave my sister to wed a new king. Then even my father’s partisans must accept the change of lineage. Kieba, please! Intercede now, only a little, and there need not be years of strife and fury, and everything will be as you desire—”

  The Kieba moved her hand, and Prince Gulien fell silent, swallowing. She did not look angry, exactly, but he did not dare defy her gesture.

  “Prince Gulien, go back to Caras. Let events play themselves out. It is time for the Madalin line to be dispossessed of its crown, that the gift may achieve its finite term. If you would reduce your people’s hardship, then persuade your father to yield quickly to the strongest Tamaristan prince. Gajdosik would do best, I think. Giving Carastind into Prince Gajdosik’s hands would do more than anything else to achieve your aim. Let Prince Gajdosik take Carastind. He will do well enough—and Parianasaku’s Capture will return to its proper place and role.”

  Gulien stared at her for a long moment. He asked at last, “Can I say nothing to sway you?” But he already knew there was nothing he could say.

  “Go back
to Caras,” the Kieba told him, with an indifference worse than unkindness. “I must return my attention to Elaru. When I am able to spare time and attention for minor problems, I shall return and then I will see to it that Carastind does not suffer unduly under its Tamaristan king. But you would do best to return to Caras. There is nothing for you here.”

  Gulien might have tried to argue further, but she only lifted a hand, flickered twice like a candle in a breeze, and like a candle flame, went out suddenly. Her chair was empty, as though she had never been there at all. He turned quickly, looking for her, already knowing he would not see her. She was gone. To the city of Elaru, he assumed, abandoning Caras and all of Carastind. Because of his father. Gulien scrubbed his hands across his face, sick and furious. He did not know what he would tell Oressa. Or his father. If his father indeed held this Parianasaku’s Capture, and Gulien had no doubt that he did, then the Kieba was right. Whatever it was, whether it was bonded to him somehow or not, he would never give it up. Osir Madalin never gave up anything of power.

  Gulien said out loud, “Oh, gods!” But the gods were dead and could not hear him, and he supposed they might very well only have said, Kingdoms rise and fall, and it matters very little. . . . It is a mistake to grow too fond. He said, half a groan, “Carastind is going to fall. Caras might already have fallen! How could I even know? Kieba!” But though he hoped, despite himself, that the Kieba might answer, she did not return.

  “Gulien Madalin,” said the flat voice of the kephalos. “Your key has been accepted. Your ancillary position has been recognized. Do you wish to envision Caras? Your predisposition should be confirmed. It may prove adequate to allow further ties to memory. If you wish to confirm your predisposition, ascertain your status, and establish your secondary identity, you may try the Kieba’s chair and venture the memories of the mountain.”