The Way of Light

by Constantine, Storm

  After her companions had departed, Varencienne sat at the table for a while, finishing a bowl of buttered tea. Depression hung over her like an oily fog, an intensification of the way she’d felt on the descent from the mountains. She thought of Rav and imagined him as a little stranger, a Malagash. She shouldn’t have left him in Magrast. In doing so, she had torn the ties that bound him to her. He would not know her now. And what of the vision she’d had of sending the dragon daughters to him? She needed to know whether it had affected him. She rubbed her hands over her face, pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. In the darkness, she was conscious of the soft hum of foreign voices around her, the few other diners left in the room. She didn’t understand their dialects. She belonged nowhere.

  She lowered her hands, wiped a finger around the film of grease in her tea bowl, licked it, savouring the strong, almost rancid, buttery flavour. In the midst of despair, small pleasures. She must remember that.

  As she left the dining room, dim lamps made mirrors of the windows. She caught a glimpse of her reflection. She did not know the woman she saw, her hair wound up in a makeshift turban of tasselled cloth, her body hidden in a swathe of woollen garments.

  Upstairs, she discovered a communal female washroom, which contained a large shallow bath set into the floor, surrounded by wooden decking. Jugs and towels were strewn haphazardly on benches around the walls, and bath-robes of cheap rough fabric hung from hooks next to the door. Two older women were sitting in the bath, chattering together, gesticulating wildly. They looked up, immediately silent, as Varencienne paused at the door. Then, one of them spoke peremptorily and Varencienne’s exhausted mind slowly translated the words. She was being invited to join them. She nodded her assent and went into the room, where she peeled off her clothes and left them in an untidy pile near the threshold. Gratefully, she eased herself into the warm water, which smelled deliciously of pine and earth.

  The Hamagarid women, who introduced themselves as Lady Patar and Lady Sikim, asked her questions, half of which she could not understand, but she answered, haltingly, as best she could. She told them she was a traveller from the south, and that she might never go home. The women did not find this particularly curious and merely nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They were the wives of rich merchants, and their husbands were presently attending a honsha at the temple – a mass audience with Aranepa. It would last for several hours, because the High Vana would allow everyone present to approach him, so that he might bestow his blessing via the touch of his hands on their heads. No one was allowed to speak to him, though, which further confirmed Varencienne’s suspicions about Taropat’s ambition to question the High Vana.

  Lady Patar gestured at Varencienne’s hands. ‘You are of noble birth,’ she said, neither question nor accusatory statement. Hands, of course, always gave such things away. Varencienne examined them and found that, beneath the dirt and despite the ragged nails, they were still the smooth unreddened hands of a princess.

  She nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘Not many venerables make the lahta,’ said Lady Sikim. At Varencienne’s bewildered expression, she explained in simple phrases that this was the term for a holy pilgrimage of deprivation, where one could experience the reality of the goddess in her natural environment.

  ‘At first, it was not what I wanted,’ Varencienne replied. ‘I was brought here by a man whoc took me from my home land.’

  The women regarded her for a moment and Varencienne wondered if, by this frank admission, she had finally intrigued a Hamagarid. Then Lady Sikim said, ‘He was sent to you, then. You were lucky.’

  Lady Patar nodded in agreement.

  ‘You are right,’ Varencienne said in careful Hamagarid, ‘Hamagara changes me in many good ways.’ She poured water over her breasts and belly with cupped hands. ‘But now, here in Hanana, I feel strange. My spirits are low. It is not what I expect.’

  ‘Expectation always brings disappointment,’ said Lady Patar. ‘Let go of it.’

  ‘I try.’

  Both Hamagarids appeared perplexed by this statement. Trying was not really part of their vocabulary. ‘Go to Aranepa,’ Lady Sikim suggested. ‘It is what you have come for.’

  Varencienne smiled weakly. ‘I will.’

  She washed her hair in the fragrant water and rubbed off the grime of her journey. Bathing was like a return to the womb, comforting. When she emerged from the water, she felt less depressed and pleasantly drowsy. She dried herself on one of voluminous towels on the benches and then lifted an item of her clothing from the heap. Now, thoroughly clean herself, she wanted to wear fresh garments. All she could do was stare at the dirty fabric in her hands, helpless and confused.

  Lady Patar got out of the bath with a great deal of splashing. ‘The inn-keeper will wash them for you,’ she said, obviously having divined Varencienne’s thoughts, ‘but a lady like you needs to wear something better than these travelling clothes to meet the High Vana. I would like to give you some of my own garments, for I have many with me.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ Varencienne said.

  Lady Patar steepled her hands and bowed, a gesture that was faintly absurd in a naked, wet, middle-aged woman. ‘It will give me pleasure,’ she said.

  After Varencienne and Patar had covered themselves with a couple of the bath-robes provided by the inn, Patar led the way to the room she shared with her husband. It was far bigger than the one Varencienne and her companions had been given and contained a huge bed, covered with an embroidered quilt. Open travelling cases on the floor spilled a variety of exotic fabrics: Lady Patar’s robes and coats. She picked a few garments up, apparently at random, and handed them to Varencienne. ‘You will look beautiful in these,’ she said.

  The garments were a long gown of soft green wool, the colour of pine leaves, and an over-coat of dark crimson, which was covered in embroidered serpents and birds. Patar also donated some fine silk undergarments, saying confidentially, ‘If a woman knows secret richness touches her flesh, she walks taller.’

  Varencienne knew she must not mutter an embarrassed offer to make some kind of payment for these gifts. A Hamagarid would be insulted by it. She bowed and thanked the lady again.

  ‘You are not as lost as you believe,’ said Lady Patar, briefly touching her shoulder.

  Varencienne wished she had the vocabulary to talk in more depth to the woman, but she was so tired, she could not concentrate enough to try.

  She went back to her room and lay down on one of the beds in her robe, her wet hair spread out over the pillow. Ellony and the men had not yet returned. Perhaps they had gone to the honsha. Varencienne yawned and turned onto her side, her hands beneath her cheek. She could feel herself drifting off to sleep and thought about getting beneath the covers, because the air was chill, but lacked the energy to move.

  She awoke in darkness, absolutely alert, at first unable to recall where she was. Her hair felt stiff about her head, because she hadn’t brushed it out before going to sleep. She remembered the bath, the Hamagarid ladies. The city was silent beyond the curtained windows. It must be very late. Varencienne lifted herself from the bed and squinted round the room. She could see, vaguely, the shapes of the mattresses on the floor and the bed next to hers. They were unoccupied. Why hadn’t Ellony and the men returned? For a moment, she was frozen by the terror of abandonment. If something had happened to them, she would be truly alone in an unknown land.

  A noise in the corner of the room made her jump. She peered into the shadows and made out a faint blue glow, but could not discern where it was coming from. The atmosphere in the room was utterly still, yet charged. Nothing felt real.

  I am dreaming, she thought.

  Something was moving towards her from the shadows, a slinking pale shape. The blue glow had resolved itself into a pair of burning eyes, low to the ground. Whatever, or whoever, approached her was crawling along the floor. She did not feel afraid, even though she
was sure she should be.

  But you are dreaming, she reminded herself. Whatever it is, it can’t harm you. You can wake up.

  She saw now that the pale shape was a large cat, a mountain leopard. It exuded a spectral light, which allowed her to see the faint dark markings on its silvery grey pelt, its huge paws, the pink of its nose leather. Only in a dream could such a creature pass through a closed door, or scale a sheer wall. The most sacred creature of the Hamagarids was visiting her dreams. She must use these moments wisely.

  Slowly, afraid the vision might vanish at any moment, she rose from the bed to stand before the leopard. She bowed. ‘Revered One, reveal to me the reason for my being here.’

  The cat made a strange grunting sound and then, with a switch of its long tail, turned round and headed for the door, which now hung open. Varencienne hurried after the creature, pulling the bathrobe more tightly around her.

  The inn slept. Varencienne could hear faint sounds of snoring coming from behind some of the closed doors. She followed the leopard to the stairs, watching the svelte movements of its shoulder muscles as it descended.

  The front door to the establishment was also open to the night and beyond it the streets were empty and still. The leopard walked with sure tread out into the city, its ears flat against its head in a feline expression of determination. Cat and woman padded through the winding alleys of Hanana, while the inscrutable cats’ eyes of the air dragon, Paraga, gazed down upon them from virtually every wall. Flags hung limp in the motionless night, but a faint echo of devotional horns could be heard, coming from the direction of the temple. The only light was that of the stars, and a few dim orange glows from the temple windows.

  The leopard led Varencienne up a maze of twisting streets, towards a narrow gate in the citadel walls. By now, they were half way up the Mountain of the Night. Beyond the gate, a pathway snaked towards the summit, lined by dwarf shrubs with shiny pointed leaves, their boughs laden with heavy pursed flower buds. The path was very steep and treacherous with spiky gravel. Varencienne now wished she’d paused to put on her boots, but why should she need boots in a dream?

  She told herself she should stop believing the stones could hurt her, but no matter how she tried to convince herself of the etheric nature of her reality, she could not dispel the experience of physical discomfort.

  The leopard loped ahead of her, and eventually she lost sight of it around a corner in the path. Shrines of white stone glowed in the darkness, half hidden among the thick shrubs. Varencienne saw statues within them, garlanded with offerings of spring flowers. At some, incense still smouldered in bowls, lit by the last visitors before sundown. Ahead, the trail branched off in different directions. Varencienne paused, wondering where the leopard had gone. It was her guide. It should have waited for her.

  She looked down, and there on the bare path, which was warmed by the heart of the mountain, were footprints of snow, the spore of an animal.

  The footprints glowed in the starlight: a trail leading upwards. They did not melt. Varencienne followed them. Her feet were now numb with cold, even though the stones beneath them were faintly warm.

  After what felt like an hour of climbing, the path emerged at the summit of the mountain. Varencienne had expected to find a smoking crater, perhaps with a perilous track leading down into the earth, but instead she found herself before a huge motionless lake, whose waters looked like a reflection of the sky, filled with stars. There was no sign of the mountain leopard. The white tracks simply ceased at Varencienne’s feet. She looked around herself, rubbing her arms against the cold. Vapour plumed from her mouth like the breath of an ice dragon.

  I am awake, she thought. This cannot be a dream – yet how can it be real?

  She heard a movement behind her and turned quickly, expecting see an etheric denizen of some kind, but what she saw was Taropat, just his face peering over the crest of the track. Again, she experienced a shock of recognition and pleasure, quickly modified by tension.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, followed by, ‘Am I dreaming?’

  Taropat finished his ascent and joined her on the gravelly path that led down to the lake. ‘How can I answer that?’ he said. ‘If you are, you can’t trust the testament of a dream character.’

  Varencienne reached out and touched his arm. He was dressed in the clothes he’d worn last time she’d seen him and felt real enough. ‘Then answer my first question. Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Taropat replied. ‘I followed something, a strange creature.’

  ‘A leopard?’

  ‘I didn’t see. It was just a vague, pale shape.’

  ‘We must be dreaming,’ Varencienne said. ‘Is it possible to share a dream, or are you just part of mine?’

  Taropat shrugged.

  ‘When I awoke in the inn,’ Varencienne said, ‘you weren’t there, neither was Ellony or Shan. That cannot have been real.’

  ‘It could,’ Taropat said. ‘We didn’t return to the inn, but stayed in a free hostel near to the temple. It was a pretty basic experience, but we were told it would give us a better chance of attending the honsha tomorrow, as the priests allow guests from the temple hostel in first. We are supposed to rise an hour before dawn and spend the subsequent four hours in prayer and meditation. Then we’ll have to give four hours labour to the temple. We weren’t told what that would involve.’ Taropat grimaced. ‘But if that is the price of Aranepa’s blessing, we decided we should pay it. We have no other currency now. Shan went back to tell you, but you weren’t in our room. He presumed you’d gone out for a walk. He left a message, though.’

  ‘I didn’t find it.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Varencienne shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it can’t be real. A mountain leopard couldn’t have got into my room. I followed one here. Now it’s gone.’

  ‘Perhaps you are awake,’ Taropat said, ‘but the leopard was some kind of vision.’ He reached out and pinched her arm sharply.

  ‘Hey!’ Varencienne cried, slapping his hand away.

  ‘You felt that. I’d say you are awake. I know the ambience of dreams and visions. This doesn’t feel like one.’

  ‘Then we have to suppose we’ve both been led here for a reason.’ She contemplated the lake for a moment. ‘But there’s nothing here.’

  ‘There is a lot here,’ Taropat said. ‘This place reminds me strongly of Lake Pancanara, where we found the Crown of Silence. It’s humming with energy. Can’t you feel it?’

  Varencienne hugged herself more tightly. Her teeth were chattering from the cold. ‘I’m shaking so much I can’t feel anything else.’

  Taropat hesitated for a moment, then took off his coat. ‘Here,’ he said.

  Varencienne took it and wrapped it round her shoulders. ‘It’s my feet,’ she said.

  Taropat sat down and began to unlace his boots. Varencienne glanced at him, couldn’t help noticing the way his hair fell around his face, parting at the back of his neck to reveal the precise knobs of his spine. Familiar feelings welled within her and she had to look away.

  ‘Will these do?’ Taropat asked.

  She turned back to him and saw he’d pulled off his thick woollen socks, which he now held out to her. He had beautiful feet, pale as snow against the black stones.

  ‘Thanks.’ The socks were warm and damp. She resisted an impulse to smell them, but sat down beside him and pulled them on, suddenly conscious of being naked beneath her robe. This was not a time for lustful thoughts, even though, with every moment that passed, she felt increasingly that she was with Khaster Leckery, the man of her imaginings, the man she had created in her mind years ago. Perhaps that, more than anything, indicated she was dreaming after all.

  ‘All the way here, I’ve fought my own mind, my own instincts,’ she said, gazing out over the water. It was a test. She knew it was a test. If she was dreaming, it didn’t matter, and if she wasn’t, then maybe these things nee
ded to be said.

  ‘In what respect?’ Taropat asked.

  She glanced at him. ‘About you. That moment when I stepped from the coach and saw you before me, all I could do was bow to you. It was absurd, but entirely beyond my will. I bowed to Khaster, a symbol.’

  ‘Of what? Cowardice, decadence, pomposity? I could offer more suggestions.’

  ‘No. Blinded honour. You are like a character from a story, who has strayed from the path, but strives for redemption.’

  Taropat grimaced. ‘That is about as real as your original fantasies about me, Lady Palindrake. I am not Khaster. How many times do you have to be told?’

  ‘As many times as you have to be told otherwise. I have conspired in your fantasy of identity, tried to see this Taropat you insist on being. But sometimes, the veneer slips away and I see Khaster, the man in the portrait at Norgance, the man described to me by his sisters and motherc by his wife.’

  Taropat uttered a scornful laugh. ‘And what does Pharinet say of me? I’m intrigued. Do tell.’

  ‘Are you still in love with her?’

  ‘I was never in love with her. If I’ve ever been blind, my marriage to her was the occasion of it. I have never been in love. It’s far too much trouble. What does she say about me?’

  ‘Good things,’ Varencienne said. ‘She feels responsible for what happened.’

  ‘Rightly so.’

  ‘Sometimes feelings flow in directions we’d prefer they didn’t. You know of this, don’t you?’

  Taropat considered for a moment, which surprised Varencienne. She had expected a heated response. ‘You refer to my affair with Tayven Hirantel,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know that feeling, but I have no regrets for it now, and never have I behaved remotely like Pharinet.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ Varencienne snapped. ‘You treat Shan abominably. You take him for granted, like he’s your slave or something. It makes me wince sometimes. What are you punishing him for? Do you love him, and want him in that way, but can’t bear a repeat of what happened with Tayven?’