The Mountain of Kept Memory

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The Mountain of Kept Memory Page 25

by Rachel Neumeier


  The glass shards on top of the wall, broken into needles and splinters, presented a considerable obstacle. Gulien would just be able to see over the wall if he stood up on the back of his horse, but even if he could clamber onto the top of that wall, those blades of glass would probably go right through boot leather, and he didn’t even want to imagine what they would do to one’s naked hands. Besides that, the top surface of the wall was no longer broad enough for a man to stand upon it comfortably. It was no more than three fingers across, if that.

  “Throw a saddle across the top,” he said tersely to Aran when the captain, tense and exasperated, came up to him. To the karanat, whom several of his men guarded, he said, “I’d have said that neither of those men is Prince Gajdosik. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yes,” answered the young man, after mounting his horse and standing in the saddle to see. “That is Addat Laasat Jerant, who accompany my prince, and Tamresk Kerenn, one who also accompany him. There were others.”

  “And my sister,” snapped Gulien.

  At his tone, the Tamaristan prudently dropped to the ground and then to one knee. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Quite unfairly, Gulien demanded, “Then where is she?” But, of course, though he flinched, the karanat could not answer. Gulien found himself drumming his fingers nervously on his horse’s saddle and made himself stop. He snapped, “Oh, get up,” at the karanat, and stood up in his own saddle to study the approaching men. The progress of the two men down the slope of the mountain seemed painfully slow. The Tamaristan company, until now drawn up in formation near the farmhouse, began a slow advance across the fields.

  “Your Highness,” began Captain Aran, indicating this movement.

  “I know,” Gulien said. “I think their commander means to make it plain that he won’t allow us to take those men prisoner.” He turned to the karanat. “You, go back to your commander and make it clear that I insist on speaking to your addat first.”

  “We and you can both speak to our addat at the same time, maybe, Your Highness,” suggested the karanat. “We all wish to hear what has happen. We shall not do fighting.”

  “Do battle,” Gulien corrected automatically, then realized how ridiculous it was to correct a foreigner’s phrasing under such fraught circumstances.

  But the Tamaristan only said, “As you say, Your Highness. We shall not do battle. We must learn what has happen.”

  Gulien gave a curt nod.

  The addat and the other man had both paused for a moment when they saw that Gulien’s people as well as their own waited for them. But they did not hesitate for more than a moment. Then the addat turned to come down the mountain more directly toward Gulien’s position. He seemed slightly familiar; Gulien wondered if he had been present during that confrontation with Prince Gajdosik at the harbor of Caras but could not clearly recall. He had not really looked at anyone there besides the Tamaristan prince and his own sister. The man was older, with a reassuring air of steadiness even under these circumstances. He allowed his companion to offer a bent knee for a step and cupped hands. As the addat was boosted up, he caught hold of the near stirrup of the saddle and carefully placed a hand among the glassy shards of crystal on top of the wall.

  At Gulien’s gesture, one of his own men held the near stirrup firmly against the addat’s weight, and almost at once the man had got a knee on the saddle and rose carefully to stand on top of the wall. He considered the men gathered in their disparate groups, Tamaristan and Carastindin. Then he said to Gulien, in a loud, clear voice, in very good Esse, “Your Highness, let us have a truce between our peoples. Until dusk, let us say, and then we may set other terms if we choose.”

  Gulien began, “My sister—”

  “I will tell you. I will tell you everything. Your Highness, it is my intention to tell you everything. But let us avoid unfortunate confusion.” He raised his voice again, turning slightly toward his own people. “Let us have a clear truce. Until dusk, a truce!”

  Because he had to acknowledge that this was a practical idea, Gulien gestured assent. But he said sharply, “You will remain my—guest, Addat Laasat Jerant, regardless of what else we may decide.”

  “I agree,” the addat said immediately. “My people will also agree.” Turning, he felt for the near stirrup with one foot, lowered himself carefully belly down, and reached down to the man on the other side of the wall. A few moments of scrambling effort ensued, and then both Tamaristan soldiers had successfully descended to the near side of the wall. Neither was armed, even with a dagger, as was quickly ascertained.

  “Well?” Gulien demanded.

  “Yes,” said the addat. “Her Highness is well and safe, I believe, Your Highness.” He glanced at the karanat, then returned his gaze to Gulien and continued in excellent Esse. “I do not believe the Keppa is ill-disposed toward Her Highness. She was well when I last saw her, only half an hour since. It is my prince who has offended the Keppa. It is my prince and my people who await her judgment. My prince remains within her mountain, and I do not know what she will do with him.” The young karanat drew a breath, and the addat turned to him and said, with some force, still in Esse, “There is indeed reason for concern. But there must be no panic nor hasty action.” He turned at once back to Gulien and said, in exactly the same level tone, “We are not to intrude upon the Keppa’s privacy, Your Highness. But I think you might.”

  “Is that your advice?” Gulien asked sharply.

  “I would far rather have my prince in your hands than in hers.”

  Gulien did not know how to answer this. He thought the Tamaristan addat was speaking honestly, but he did not know how to weigh the risks of any course of action; and there seemed altogether too many courses of action possible.

  As though guessing something of his confusion, the addat asked him, “What terms would you demand from me and my men, if you would go speak to the Keppa and make the effort to reclaim my prince from her hands?” He did not wait for an answer, but went on immediately. “I propose these terms: More than truce, I will offer my parole and that of all these men.” He nodded toward the Tamaristan company. “Until you return or my prince returns or Her Highness returns, whoever shall come down the mountain first.”

  “Your parole, is it? Until you choose to resume your war against Carastind?”

  “We will disarm, if you wish, Your Highness. I trust Your Highness will extend honorable treatment to all these men.”

  The karanat said urgently, “Sir—” He went on in Tamaj, too quick and fierce for Gulien to catch more than a few words.

  Addat Laasat raised his hand, stemming this protest, and answered, in the same language, but far more slowly and clearly and with a glance at Gulien for permission to speak Tamaj rather than Esse. “All your objections, I understand. Djerkest is dead. He was gravely mistaken regarding the Keppa’s vigor. It is now impossible for us to oppose the Keppa. The other men are dead. Our prince is himself in great peril. Even now he is attempting to set himself between the Keppa’s wrath and all of us.”

  The younger man began another, even more fervent protest. Again the addat cut him off, with greater force, though he continued to speak carefully and clearly. “Yes, I agree with you! I am sure we all agree. I believe the Kieba favors Gulien Madalin over our prince. I see no better way to intervene for our prince than to ask the Carastindin prince to do so on our behalf, in return for all our people swearing to his service.”

  Gulien raised his eyebrows.

  Seeing that Gulien understood what he was saying, the addat met his eyes and inclined his head, though he continued speaking ostensibly to the junior officer. “I agree this is not a good plan. I believe it is the best we can do. We have been strictly enjoined against intruding against the Keppa’s privacy, and if we must swear to a foreign prince’s service to earn a place on this side of the Narrow Sea, then we will do that. Our prince would not wish to spend our blood fighting when he cannot win—and he has already given us into Oressa Madalin’s hands.” T
hen he said in Esse, directly to Gulien, “We will swear to you, Your Highness, as long as Prince Gajdosik confirms the oath on our behalf, which I think he will do, if the Kieba opens her hand. I hope she will do that if you intervene on his behalf, Your Highness.”

  “But—” The karanat gestured up the mountain. “We—I—”

  Addat Laasat said firmly, “If you attempt to scale that wall, I will borrow a Carastindin weapon and shoot you down myself.”

  The karanat drew himself up. Then, perhaps reading his superior’s resolve, seemed to shrink a bit where he stood. “Yes,” he said, yielding. He looked from Laasat to Gulien. “Yes,” he said again, bowed his head, and stepped back.

  “Your prince set you all into my sister’s hands,” Gulien said, to be sure he’d heard that correctly.

  “He did, Your Highness. I witnessed the moment.”

  Gulien thought about this. Finally he said, “You will disarm your men first. Then I will go up to find the Kieba.” He gestured to his own people that they should let the addat go, and hoped he was not wrong. He felt torn in all directions and tried not to show his impatience. His father would never have let anyone see him hesitate. But then, his father would never have been indecisive in the first place. He would weigh all his options and decide in half a heartbeat, and no matter what came of his actions, no one would ever see him irresolute or regretful.

  Gulien should be more like that. He tried to reach a firm conclusion.

  He should go up the mountain. Maybe. Probably. The moment he decided, he found himself uncertain. That was no good. No, he would go. He had nearly promised he would, anyway. Though it was plain that he couldn’t simply rush away over the wall and up the mountain until he made sure he wouldn’t be risking a pitched battle behind him. He glanced uneasily over at the Tamaristan company. The addat had plainly started an argument. Gulien wondered who would win. He bet on the addat.

  Though as far as that went, he had only the addat’s word for what had passed between the Kieba and Prince Gajdosik and Oressa. But he could not quite imagine the man making up that story. Though after Gulien had stolen the Kieba’s golem . . . What if he had offended her so badly that she handed Carastind over to Prince Gajdosik after all?

  Gulien looked doubtfully up at the high, narrow wall, its top glittering with shards of glass, and could not decide what course to take. The other wall had almost seemed to invite approach, compared to this forbidding wall.

  But Oressa was within the mountain. What if she offended the Kieba? It seemed all too likely that she might. She never had been afraid of anyone in her life, except their father. Gulien looked from the wall to the Tamaristan company, at least a dozen men arguing now, and back to the wall. He hated to think of trying to get over it, even with the saddle to guard his hands and knees against the glass. He would probably jump down on the other side and sprain his ankle, and then what? Crawl up the mountain? Very princely.

  Reaching out, he laid his hand against the rough red sandstone of the wall, warm in the late-afternoon sunlight, and wished that all of this was over and everything decided, with no more need of doubts and hesitation and—

  The sandstone crumbled out from beneath his palm. Gulien jerked back, reining his normally placid horse back so sharply that the startled animal pinned its ears and crow-hopped. He barely noticed, even though he had to grab the pommel to avoid a fall. All his attention was on the wall, which was turning to sand right before his eyes, a three- or four-foot width pouring away in a shower of grit and red dust. Shards of glass tumbled, glittering in the light, shattering when they hit the hard ground underfoot.

  Gulien stared at the wall for one more long moment, while all around him men exclaimed and pointed. The gap was about as wide as a doorway.

  If the other wall had been a stern warning and the new wall a blatant threat, what was this?

  He looked around. The Tamaristans had stopped arguing and turned to stare. Laasat Jerant said something forceful—he was too far away for Gulien to catch anything but the tone, but it did not seem now that any of his people were inclined to dispute with him.

  Gulien took a deep breath. Then he said, “Captain Aran. Please see that the Tamaristan soldiers are all disarmed and taken under loose guard. I don’t think they’ll make trouble for us. To ensure this, you will see to it that our people leave them alone. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Aran agreed, though rather unhappily. “But, Your Highness, what if . . . ?” He stopped there, apparently unable to frame a coherent objection.

  Gulien suspected he knew how the other man felt, but he did not see what he could do except pretend to a confidence he did not entirely feel. Swinging down off his horse, he handed the reins to the nearest man and walked through the gap in the wall, stepping carefully to avoid the still-sharp blades of black glass. Then he strode up the mountain. He did not look back.

  The door into the mountain was much as Gulien remembered it. He did not need a guide this time, remembering the way with a peculiar vividness, as though he had come this way many times and not merely once before. It took less time than he had expected to find that blank red face of stone with the lightning-jag of crystal running through it, and he felt no uncertainty about the way. He put out a hand to guard his face in case the stone was solid, but he knew it would not be. Heat washed up around him as he stepped forward into the stone, and then the heat died away and Gulien was standing once more in the enormous, echoing Tomb of the Gods.

  No one spoke, not even the kephalos. Gulien did not speak either, feeling oddly as though it would not be fitting. All the statues seemed somehow to be in shadow this time, from the nearest, which loomed over him, to the farthest, which were barely visible. Except Ysiddre’s statue. The goat-headed goddess glimmered like the moon captured in a pool of water. Her door was standing open, moonlight shining along her stairway of amethyst-threaded white marble; the new moon carved above the door’s lintel was etched with light.

  In contrast, the shadows of the hall lay over Ysiddro so thickly he could hardly make her out. He remembered Ysiddro’s door as black marble with veins of white and smoke-gray. Now it was a dull, flat black, starred with a network of fine fractures, like glass cracked in fire. The doorknob was simply missing. The full moon she held in her right hand was dull pewter, the crescent moon she held in her left hand powdery black.

  Gulien shuddered, though he did not entirely know why. He did know that he would not have touched that black door for anything.

  But it was the other goddess’s doorway he needed anyway. He walked forward and started boldly up her white stairway. The air seemed cold for one step and then colder again with the next and the next, with a biting chill foreign to Carastind. He did not remember whether he had noticed anything of the kind on his earlier ascent of these stairs, yet the cold also seemed familiar, as though he had come this way a thousand times. Each step was carved a little bit too deeply for comfort, as though made for someone taller than any mortal man. That, too, seemed somehow familiar, like the cold and the silence and the misty light through which he climbed.

  He came at length, as he had known he would, through a veil of heat, to the small chamber that had been carved out of the gray crystal, with its single chair of the same crystal. Beyond the chair, on the dais, lay a woman in a plain white shroud that left only her head uncovered. It was the Kieba, and she was dead.

  No—no; he saw almost at once, after that first moment of horror, that this was not the Kieba. This was some other woman, like but unlike: older and thinner than the woman he had met, her eyes sunken, her bones stark beneath her skin.

  Then Gulien blinked, and as though his vision had suddenly snapped into focus, he once more recognized the Kieba. He took a step back, baffled and beginning to be frightened, unable to understand why she had changed in his eyes—why his perception of her had changed and then changed back. Of course it was the Kieba. He had no idea why he had thought anything else, and he hurried forward, dropped to one kne
e, and touched her throat, feeling for a pulse. Her skin was cool, and he could find no heartbeat.

  “Gulien Madalin,” said a familiar, inexpressive voice. “Welcome. Your primary identity is recognized. Your secondary identity is: Manian Semai. Your affiliation is: to the Kieba. Your principal aspect is: undefined. Your subsidiary aspect is: undefined. Your position is: ancillary.”

  Straightening, Gulien looked around, though he knew he would not see the bodiless kephalos. He hardly knew what to ask first—about the Kieba, about what had happened to her, about his sister, about Prince Gajdosik. He opened his mouth, shut it again, took a breath, and asked, “Kephalos, what did you do to me last night, and what am I supposed to do now? Where is Oressa? Where is Prince Gajdosik, and what has happened to the Kieba?”

  “Nothing has happened to the Kieba,” said the Kieba herself, opening her eyes and sitting up. Gulien, his breath hissing out in startlement, stumbled back a step, caught himself, and tried to reclaim something like dignity, though he didn’t know how well he managed this.

  “At least, not recently,” added the Kieba, rising neatly to her feet. “I am not entirely myself, but I will do.” The white shroud fell in smooth draperies around her, revealed now to be nothing more deathly than a simple long dress. She regarded him with every appearance of cool interest. “Gulien Madalin. So the kephalos has guided you to establish a secondary identity.”

  “It seemed best,” stated the kephalos without emphasis. “Rival claimants are dangerous.”

  “I know your opinion,” the Kieba said indifferently. “Manian Semai, is it, whose memories you have brought forward for this Madalin prince? I remember Manian.” Her colorless eyes turned away from Gulien as she seemed to lose interest in him, her gaze growing abstracted. “Manian,” she repeated. “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gulien said quietly, bowing slightly to try to recapture the Kieba’s attention without angering her. “Who is Manian Semai? What has the kephalos done to me? What rival claimants exist, and what is to be claimed?” He hesitated and then asked, “Where is Oressa? Perhaps her fate is a small thing to you, Kieba, but it matters to me. Please, will you tell me what has happened to her?”

 

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