by Dana Marton
The one on my left spoke, if the gurgling, bubbling sounds coming forth from his mouth, like water pouring from a narrow-necked bottle, could be called speech. He stopped when he realized I was listening.
“The Guardians welcome you, Tera of the Shahala,” the one to my right said in the language of the Kadar. His beard spread over his round middle.
I sat up slowly, surprised that I had the strength, and drew back.
His lips stretched into a grandfatherly smile. “Do not be alarmed, child. I am the Guardian of the Sacred Cave.”
I gaped.
“I am the Guardian of the Sacred Scrolls,” the one at the foot of my furs said, moonlight reflecting off his bald head. The wrinkles on his face were etched into a permanent scowl, making him look the oldest of the three, although they all seemed as old as time itself.
“I am the Guardian of the Sacred Gate,” said the third, a great carved stick lying across his lap, then added, “We have been waiting for you for a long time.”
So I had died. I wanted to ask to see my mother. Then I moved and pain sliced through my body, strong enough to convince me that I had life inside.
But if I lived, how could I be among Guardians? Their kind had been gone for hundreds of years.
The Guardian of the Cave stood and strode to the dark opening, indicating with a hand that I should follow. I rose, the dizziness brought on by the movement passing quickly, and walked to him, gasping at the sight.
Below the cave spread a valley, a small jewel of a city in the middle, illuminated by the double moons. Ancient houses lined the twisting streets, the buildings huddled together. Some of the roofs were pointed, some round, painted in a myriad of colors. Despite the cool northern spring, the trees bore leaves, and bushes too, making the place seem out of time even more.
The building that drew my eyes and stole my breath stood tall and proud in the middle of the city, its round golden dome glowing in the moonlight.
The Forum.
“The Forgotten City.” The words stumbled from my stunned lips.
The Guardian of the Cave nodded as he turned back into the cave. “Let us eat. You must regain your full strength.”
My stomach growled. I had missed my evening meal at the palace.
I followed him to the fire where the others now gathered, and sat on the ground among them. I waited for them to take from the cheese and dried fruit before I reached for any, as was our Shahala custom when eating with one’s elders.
We did not speak as we ate and drank. I wondered if the Guardians always ate this late, then remembered that one of them had said they had been waiting for me. Had I kept them from their dinner?
“How did you know I was coming?” I did not think anyone could have seen me in the thick mist to forewarn them.
“From our fathers,” the Guardian of the Gate said. “And they were told by their fathers before them. We have waited for hundreds of years.”
Blood rushed to my head, and I closed my eyes for a moment against the sudden dizziness.
“You are overwhelming her. She only just awakened,” the Guardian of the Scrolls barked at the other two and yanked his gnarled beard out of the way when it nearly dangled into the fire.
“I would rather know.” I struggled to catch my breath.
The portly Guardian of the Cave nodded. “We will let the Guardian of the Scrolls tell you. He knew your mother the best. You could take a walk, if you feel sufficiently recovered.”
A full-grown manyinga could not have held me back.
The Guardian of the Scrolls grumbled something about old achy bones but stood and grabbed a large fur from one of the sleeping places to wrap around his shoulders. When he handed me another, I did the same and followed him out of the cave without trouble. The food had returned some of my strength.
The Guardian limped ahead of me on the path, moonlight glinting off his bald head.
“Grandfather,” I said, talking with the utmost respect, “may I try to ease your pain?”
He stopped to look at me, anger on his face and impatience. “Fresh from death’s door. Have you not learned anything?” He snorted with derision. “Do you not think I could take my own pain if I cared to bother? Young people. They think everything that could be fixed ought to be. Maybe sometimes an old man just wants to be left to die.”
He continued down the narrow steps cut into the rock, mumbling as he went.
I caught only a word here and there, missing most of what he was saying, only catching that he wished I had not come until he had died and his son had taken over, and that he surely hoped at least he would die before the rest of the trouble arrived. Then he fell silent as we reached the bottom of the steps and walked the starlit road toward the city in the valley.
Soon we passed by a strange flowering bush covered in round flowers. The petals reminded me of the purest alabaster, white to the point of translucence and silky by the looks of them, although I did not dare to reach out and touch a thing of such beauty. The flowers’ sweet, spicy scent filled me with a giddy pleasure.
“Is it magic?”
The Guardian stopped and turned back, mumbled something under his breath. “A rose. Hot springs crisscross the valley under the surface.” He moved on without giving the flower a second look.
I kept turning back, until I stumbled over some rocks. After that I kept my attention forward and on the path. Hot springs. That explained the lush green of the valley, how a flower that looked liked it belonged to a much more southern climate could bloom this high up the mountain.
He shuffled on, lost in his own thoughts, looking neither left nor right but walking straight toward the strange city in the hollow of the valley. Even as we reached the first houses, he said nothing.
“Grandfather, did you know my mother?” I asked after some time, thinking he had forgotten about me.
He walked awhile before he spoke, his voice somewhat softened. “There was one worth the bother.”
Hope leaped. “Do you know where I can find her grave?”
He turned toward a round clearing among the houses, the ground covered in grass, a silver tree in the middle. He strode to the tree, and I followed, then stopped when he halted at a crystal rock that reached to my knees. The rock sparkled in the moonlight, the exact color of the petals of the moonflower that grew in our Shahala hills.
I could scarcely breathe.
I fell to my knees and hugged that rock, not sure if I could ever let go. Mother. I am here.
Some time passed before my tears dried. I blinked a few times. Sniffed. “Did she have the Last Blessing?”
The Guardian looked at me as if I was a senseless child. “She certainly did.”
A small, empty corner of my heart filled with peace.
I sat back on my heels and noticed a faint inscription on the rock. Spirit, be strong. Heart, be brave.
I ran my fingers over the letters. Strong and brave were Kadar values.
“It should say Spirit, be kind. Heart, be true,” I whispered. That had been my mother.
But the Guardian shook his head. “Her last words they were.”
I looked at the inscription for some time, trying to make sense of it. Maybe she had so encouraged herself at the end because she knew she was dying.
“Did you meet her when she healed the High Lord Barmorid?”
The Guardian lowered himself next to me, his joints creaking. He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. “I first met her long before that. When she injured him.”
“Had she come to Karamur twice?” I only remembered the one journey.
He drew a labored breath, as if preparing for the effort of speaking. “When your mother, Chalee, first came into her healing powers, they were so extraordinary that her fame spread far and wide on the island.”
This I knew. I waited for more in the silence. The streets slept, no other human being in sight but the two of us. Unlike Karamur, the Forgotten City had no night guard.
“Barmorid,
a young warrior still,” the Guardian continued, “had suffered a grave injury in battle, and when your grandfather heard, he came to help, bringing Chalee with him. Your people and the Kadar were closer back then, the old favors each had done the other not so well forgotten.”
I knew how the Kadar kept us safe and how without them we could not have our precious peace to hone our healing skills generation after generation. My mother had reminded me of that often enough, so I sought to head off the lecture I felt coming. “Did my mother give back Barmorid his health?”
“She did.” The Guardian nodded. “But took something a lot more precious.”
“My mother would never take something not freely given and refused payment half the time,” I retorted, quick to defend her.
“Given or not, she took a piece of the High Lord’s heart when she left. And something else.”
“Barmorid fell in love with her?” I had never known of any man in my mother’s life but Jarim.
The Guardian nodded again. “And she with him.”
“What else did she take?” I asked, still stunned by the first revelation.
“Can you not guess?”
I could, from the way he looked at me now, but so shocked was I, I could not speak for some time.
“Why did Barmorid never claim me?” I asked finally, when I could form coherent thoughts once again. I was half Kadar? Oh, it could not be. It simply could not!
“He never knew. No matter how much I tried to convince her, Chalee would not hear of telling him. She wanted to return to her people, even if in disgrace, preferring that to the prison of the High Lord’s Pleasure Hall, for she knew he would never let her leave.”
I stared, but not without some understanding. I had run away from Pleasure Hall’s gilded prison even with my last breath.
The Guardian said, “Your grandfather knew, of course. A great healer like he could feel the new life within her. Perhaps that is what killed him so suddenly—a broken heart. He knew the rest, you realize, the things to come.”
He fell silent for a long time before speaking again, his voice tired and faint, so I could barely make out his words. “Destinies are made to be fulfilled. Some roads may seem to lead in other directions, but at the end, they all loop back to where they must.”
My whole world had changed in the space of a few heartbeats. I had no patience for a philosophical discussion. “What happened after that?”
“Your mother returned alone to your Shahala shore, but someone waited for her.”
“Jarim?”
The Guardian nodded.
“He fell in love with her too?”
“Not at first, not for a long time, although your mother tried. I asked the Seer to search her out from time to time and tell me how she fared. I had grown rather attached to her, I suppose, never having a daughter of my own, only the one son.”
“Did she forget Barmorid so soon?” I disliked the idea of my mother having a fickle heart.
“Not until her dying day.”
“Then why did she become lalka to Jarim?”
The Guardian looked at me, and I saw the depth of the sadness in his eyes for the first time. “I will tell you if you wish, but it will be a hard tale to hear.”
“No tale of my mother could be so hard that I would not wish to hear it.”
He nodded. “The Kerghi are not our only enemy, nor are they the worst,” he began. “A bigger power stands behind them and pushes them forward. The Emperor Drakhar…” His face darkened as he uttered the words. “He has been coming a long time, and before he ever started on his cursed path, he was watching. He knows the prophecies as well as you or I.”
Maybe better than I, for I could think of no prophecy that could have anything to do with this.
“The Emperor knew about you,” the Guardian went on, “long before you were born, and so he sent Jarim to kill you.”
I inched closer to the rock crystal. All I had known as truth, my entire childhood, fell away. My father was the High Lord of the warrior race I despised, the man who raised me a hired murderer.
“Your mother knew the prophecies, of course, but still she would not stay here where Barmorid could have protected her and you, no matter how your grandfather and I scolded her.” The old anger and worry still rang in his voice as he spoke.
“She returned to her home alone, with child, determined to birth you in freedom, willing to face the world for it. She hoped, I think, to change your destiny. She was very young still.”
He waved the old regret away with a listless gesture, then continued his story. “She had more than enough knowledge of herbs to poison Jarim, but she could not bring herself to do it, not even to save your life.”
“How did she change Jarim’s mind?” For I knew she must have managed that feat somehow, as I was still alive.
“Each day while he was waiting for you to be born, she fought with love every bit of hatred he had, until he came to care for her. Still, though, he planned to kill you when you were born, but not her, never harm her. He planned to make new babes with her to console her once his dark charge was finished.”
“But her power of good was the stronger,” I half said, half asked.
The Guardian looked straight ahead without seeing me. “Every time a man and a woman come together, not only their bodies join but so do their spirits. And every time your mother’s spirit joined with Jarim’s, she left a little bit of her goodness behind. Little by little, she changed the man.”
“At the cost of her own spirit?” At once I understood why she had been too weak to withstand the strain of healing Barmorid for the second time.
I cried at the thought and told the Guardian how I wished my mother had not sacrificed so much for me. I did not feel worthy of such a gift.
“Your mother followed the path of her own choosing to the end, always doing what she thought right, even at the cost of her own life, even when it was forbidden.”
The Guardian sighed. “When she came back to Karamur for the second time, the High Lord was ill with fever, the kind that settles deep into the blood. She had given away so much of her spirit to Jarim by then that she did not have enough power to heal Barmorid, not even with all the love in her heart. She gave her spirit to him to strengthen his so he could win the fight on his own.”
I wept openly.
The Guardian stood. “The rest is in the Sacred Scrolls. You will see those soon enough. Now, let this old man go. I performed this first task; as little as I wished it, for do not think the thought of her does not pain me still. One more task awaits the Guardian of the Scrolls, and I hope I shall be dead by the time it is called for, and you will be served by my son, for he is more ready than I.”
I hugged the rock one more time before I pushed to my feet and turned to the Guardian. “I thank you for what you told me. But forgive me, I cannot wish for your death, not even to bring you the relief you seek.”
He nodded, weariness drawing his face into a thousand wrinkles. His shoulders sloped as if crushed by a great weight.
“Do not think of death as a sad end for me, child. I have lived a long life. I have seen winds of change and each new wind bring a worse fate for the world than the one before. I have seen men fight against evil, and time and time again lose their battle. I fought too in my own way, and I am now too tired to carry on the fight. If I found any favor with the spirits, I ask only this: that I be taken before this war comes and brings true darkness with it.”
I had many questions but sensed that this was not the time to ask more.
We walked back toward the cave in silence, each deep in our own thoughts. The night itself quieted around us; even the wind stopped whistling. Confusion, sadness, and anger filled me. My mind a jumble of emotions.
Until now, even in the uncertainty of my fate, at least I knew who I was. To balance the twisting unknown paths of my future, stood solidly my past. And now I had lost even that.
We passed a round hut I had not noticed before. It had no
windows at all. Grain storage?
The Guardian caught my gaze. “Selaila’s hut. She is our Seer.”
I wanted to ask more, but his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. As we left the Seer’s hut behind us, my thoughts returned to our earlier talk. Plenty there to ponder for a hundred days.
My mother had as many secrets as a stranger. Everything I thought I knew of my beginnings was false. And still some mysterious destiny awaited me, one the Guardian of the Scrolls had only hinted at. Maybe the other Guardians would tell me the rest.
I looked up toward the cave and saw one of them approach in a rush. He waved at us to hurry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
(The Road to Freedom)
“The Guardian of the Gate had to leave. I shall walk you back to the cliff. You must take care not to slip,” the Guardian of the Cave said, breathing hard from the rush down the slope.
“Must I leave?” I felt as if I had fallen into a beautiful dream at last after many hard and dark days. The call to waken came too soon. I wanted to see more, learn more. I wanted the tranquil peace of the Forgotten City that at its heart held my mother’s grave.
“You must.” He turned onto the path that led to the top off the cliffs above Karamur. “But every time the mist descends, you may come to us to learn more.”
He gestured with his hand, and I hurried after him. When the mist descends? I had been in Karamur already for the full double cycle of the moons, and I had seen the mist but once before this.
“We shall call the mist for you. Do not worry,” said the Guardian of the Cave as if reading my mind.
Such wonder stood so far beyond my comprehension I could not even question it. “What will I tell them about where I have been? The servants must have noticed my absence by now; the guards must have been alerted.”
I glanced back. The Guardian of the Scrolls had not followed us but began his slow, limping climb up to the cave. He stopped to look at me. I bowed deep. He dipped his head in a small nod of farewell before turning back to his path.