by Dave Duncan
“She was the only survivor. I detected her sword.”
Sword? What sword? Rap peered in bewilderment at his daughter. He remembered that he had seen her wearing a sword a moment ago. Oh! Yes, there was indeed a rapier hanging at her side, but now it was fuzzy and hard to make out. How had Kadie ever acquired a magic sword? And Kadie the only survivor of that appalling destruction, his child?
He took a very deep breath. Then he looked around, concentrating. The three of them stood at the water’s edge on a long white beach. Inland lay grassy dunes and clumps of trees, and low hills beyond them. The serenity of the land was as palpable as the sunlight. Thume. He was in Thume. With Kadie.
The other girl — woman — was regarding him anxiously.
“So this is the Accursed Land?” he said, trying to believe it. “I knew that there were people still, because my wife visited here, many years ago. I suspect that there was sorcery. I had trouble making anyone else agree with me. The inattention spell is extraordinarily potent.”
“I know about your wife. Very few come and depart safely, your Majesty.”
“Please call me Rap. And your title — Archon? Are you a ruler here, then?”
The young face was solemn. “Thume is ruled by the Keeper, and I have to take you to her at once.”
Mm! His wild hypothesis seemed to have been proved correct. There was sorcery in Thume, much sorcery. That did not mean that he would be a welcome visitor, of course. Kadie had definitely flinched at the mention of the Keeper, whoever she was.
But Kadie was safe, if not quite unharmed, and that was wonderful. Yet, like him, she was an intruder in a closed land.
A long time ago a God had warned him that he must lose a child. Kadie? He had a horrible feeling that part of Kadie had been lost, perhaps forever.
Or Gath? And where was Inos?
Perhaps the Keeper, whoever she was, would have some answers.
5
Like some gigantic millipede, the caliph’s army crawled along the coast of the Morning Sea. On one hand rose the barren crags of the Progistes Mountains, on the other white foam washed the cliffs. Only seabirds kept vigil in the vast bleak terrain.
This no-man’s land was unmapped, but there were old records of Imperial armies invading Zark across these borders, so a return journey must be possible. At times progress was halted by the need to bridge wadis or scout a passable route, and water was strictly rationed. By and large, though, the expedition was proceeding on schedule.
The caliph was pleased. So Zarga said.
Azak had carried through on his promise to bring Inos back to Thume. She journeyed in a screened wagon with six of his women. It creaked and rocked and tortured her with nausea. Its heavy drapes cut out all view of the world and made the interior insufferably hot. Drawn by oxen, unsprung, the cumbersome vehicle tossed its unfortunate passengers around on their silken mattresses. At times it would lurch bodily sideways and they would all slide together, ending as a screaming heap of cushions and nubile female djinn. And Inos. Often she would wrench her twisted shoulder in these scrimmages, or bang her swollen face, and at such times she was hard put not to express her true feelings about the mighty Azak.
This was one of three wagons used to transport the royal seraglio when the caliph campaigned — a small part of the royal seraglio, apparently. Only the most favored concubines had been selected. They were all greatly impressed by the honor. They were all very young and lovely. Except Inos.
She gritted her teeth as she listened to their inane chatter. She kept her own council when they praised their lord the caliph and congratulated themselves on their good fortune in being allowed to serve him. Inos puzzled them greatly. She answered all their questions — and told them nothing, because they had not known what to ask. They were barely aware that there was a world beyond the harem walls, or people other than djinns.
At times they puzzled Inos. They could be as vicious as adders in their talk, and once in a while would fly at one another with nails slashing, yet there was a strange innocence about them. They were pets, like fish in a bowl. Since childhood they had been taught to believe that their only purpose in life was to please the caliph and breed him sons. They saw no world beyond Azak. He was their God. How could they possibly be happy with minds so stunted? But they were happy. By and large, Inos had never met a group of people so content.
She preferred the company of these juvenile rabbits to that of their supervisor — Nurkeen, keeper of the caliph’s women. Nurkeen was almost certainly one of Azak’s innumerable sisters, and she was a poisoned prune of a hag. Nurkeen was no rabbit. Nurkeen and Inosolan were fire and oil. Fortunately, at the moment Nurkeen was riding in one of the other wagons.
There had been a brief stop at noon. Zarga, who was all of fifteen, had been summoned to the caliph’s tent. Now she was reporting to her companions. He had been very happy with the progress of the army. He had been jovial, also very energetic and demanding. That was always a good sign. She had pleased him and given him great satisfaction. He had said so.
They always said that. Mindless little idiots!
He might even send for her again this evening. They always hoped that — twice in one day was a lifetime triumph.
He had wrapped the emerald sash around her naked body before he coupled with her. That was a very great honor. The others all hastened to claim that he had done that with them, too, many times.
The wagon rumbled forward, tipped, straightened, lurched. Outside, in the fresh air and sunshine, soldiers were singing a marching song as they trudged. Its theme was the glory and invincibility of the caliph.
Zarga glanced pityingly at Inos. “It is very foolish to resist him,” she said primly.
“I daresay,” Inos retorted through her swollen lips. “It was because I would not resist him that he struck me.”
The others all looked puzzled. “But if he told you to resist, then why did you not resist?”
“Just chicken, I guess,” Inos said grimly. Her shoulder was the worst, but she had other sore places and few of them were the fault of the wagon. “Is it true he uses magic to maintain his virility?”
Squeals of shocked denial…
No one had ever suggested such a treasonous idea in Inos’ hearing, but the remark was enough to bring the conversation around to sorcery. She was a captive and must endure what her captor dealt out, but in the process she was taking the opportunity to learn as much as she could about Azak and Azak’s rise to omnipotence in Zark and Azak’s use of sorcery. Azak would probably have been very surprised to know how much his concubines could reveal of his affairs when Nurkeen was not around.
What use this information might ever be, Inos had no idea, but one thing she knew for certain — some day she would get even with Azak ak’Azakar ak’Zorazak. One rape on a desk and two in his tent, and the tally sheet was likely to grow longer before this journey was finished.
6
For months Rap had lived in a world where sorcery must be handled like gold in a back-street tavern, hoarded and concealed, to be expended only in dire need. Thume was not like that. The Thaïle girl had already flaunted power around him — to restore his strength and clothe him — and now she released it in a thunderbolt.
The sun-baked beach vanished and the sounds of the sea were cut off as if by an ax. He staggered with shock as he found himself within a massive jungle, a giant tangle of ancestral tree trunks and sodden undergrowth. The air was as clammy and heavy as a wet sponge, the light a faint greenish glow in primordial gloom, all sound muffled. He heard Kadie whimper close by and wanted to grab her up in his arms, but he resisted the impulse. Kadie was going to need slow care and love and much patience. At the moment she seemed happier with the Thaïle girl than with him; that rejection tormented him, but he would not distress her more by interfering.
Dimly he made out his two companions, and then a cliff of ancient, crumbling masonry, shrouded in moss. The pixie was already entering down a slippery ramp of humus, lead
ing Kadie by the hand.
Rap followed, into a wet, black crypt. Two corner doorways led through into another chamber, which was brighter only because it was not entirely dark. The flagstones were cold and gritty under his sandals. Blank walls soared up into darkness. He paused, awestruck by the grim majesty of this ancient shrine. Here was sanctity, and sadness, and unutterable authority. Whatever he had expected in Thume, it was not this. He could not have expected this anywhere.
“What is this place?” His voice came out in a whisper, as if afraid to ruffle the dread stillness.
“It is the Chapel,” Thaïle murmured. “I think Kadie and I had best wait here, King Rap. You are expected.”
Indeed he was. He had an eerie sensation that the building itself was conscious of his presence. Its windows were gaping wounds, irregularly shaped and positioned, toothed with broken fragments of stone tracery. The proportions were all wrong, somehow sinister. As his eyes adjusted to the faint glow penetrating the jungle outside, he saw that there were no furnishings within the Chapel, other than one small chair in a far corner. An indistinct figure sat there, waiting for him. With a conscious effort, he began to walk.
Then he located the core of the mystery, the source of all this sanctity and power. Sorrow poured out from the fourth corner, radiating from the ground itself. His hair stirred as he registered the anguish and undertones of rage. Whatever it was, it knew he was there. It resented him.
With measured step he approached the woman on the chair. Had he not been told to expect a woman, he would not have known her sex. She was muffled in a dark robe and cowl, and she did not show in the ambience at all — strange indeed! He could not explain that, but he remembered Shandie’s story of the woman who had appeared to him with word of Wold Hall, and he knew that the circle had closed. That mystery was solved at last.
When he had met Lith’rian they had bantered with the ritual greetings of various races. Who could know the greetings of the pixies, which had not been heard in a thousand years? And who could ever use levity in this awful place?
He stopped a respectful distance from her and bowed low. “My name is Rap. I come in peace.” If she was mundane, why did his farsight not penetrate her garb? If a sorceress, why was she not visible in the ambience? What was she?
For a long moment she sat silent. Then her voice came like a whisper of wind in trees. “I am the Keeper.” She lifted a hand from her lap and laid back her hood.
Instantly Rap knew what she was. The haggard face, the tortured eyes, the raw suffering — he had never seen their like, but he recognized them at once. Things became much clearer.
He sank to his knees and bowed his head in homage.
She sighed. “You know me for what I am.”
“Lady, I do. I also knew five words once.”
“For how long?”
“A few months.” He cringed at the memory. “And you?” he whispered.
When her reply came at last, it was even softer. “Seven years.”
He could not imagine what seven years of such an ordeal would be like, nor what they would do to a living being. Her every moment must be torment, a struggle merely to continue existing within the suffering flesh. A demigod never slept.
“You are not welcome here,” she said.
“But you know why I have come.”
“The follies of the Outside do not concern us.”
“You spoke to the imperor, telling him of the preflecting pool.”
She sighed again. “It was a misjudgment and it did no good.”
“I think mayhap it did, Lady.” Shandie had found Sagorn, and Rap. According to Kadie, Gath had recognized the imperor in time for Inos to save him from the goblins. Ylo had remained loyal to Shandie in the hope of seducing his wife and had thereby made possible his escape from Hub — all these things because of the visions in the pool.
“Mayhap it slowed the fall,” the Keeper conceded in her leathery whisper, “but it will not change the outcome for the better. I may have incurred the enmity of the Gods by overstepping the limits They set for Keef.”
“Keef?” he queried. Then he turned his face to look at the dark miasma of anguish rising from the floor in that other corner.
“The first Keeper lies there. Your presence here awakens ancient malice, Rap of Krasnegar.”
“I mean no harm.”
“Indeed you do!” The Keeper straightened; fury flamed around her. “You hope to enlist our help in your vain struggle against the one who calls himself the Almighty. You would have us discard a thousand years of sacrifice and renunciation. You would tear down walls that generations have lived to defend.”
Rap was shaken by the vehemence of her rejection. “Is not the battle against the Evil a duty for all mortals?”
“Do not presume to lecture me on what is evil!” Her voice rang louder, and bitter. Echoes stirred. “The sufferings that the world inflicted upon Thume cleared any debt — that was the concession Keef wrung from the Gods. We may keep the world away, but never meddle.”
“Then you do not know what is happening out there.”
“I know very well. The Keeper is allowed to watch — even, in some cases, to send others to appraise. But knowledge must not stray into action.”
She was as open to argument as a granite pillar. His cause was hopeless.
“Then tell me how things stand.”
At once he wondered if he had been wise to ask that. Her gruesome, wizened face writhed into a cryptic smile. Before he could summon courage to withdraw the question, she answered it.
“They do not stand. They crumble even as you breathe. Every day his power waxes. Even I, with all my powers, dare not venture now beyond the boundaries of my domain lest I be discerned.”
“If we can gather all the free sorcerers of the world together —”
“You will not come close to matching the Covin.”
There was a dread finality about that judgment. If it was true, then the war was lost. If it was true. Rap felt the cold despair of the Chapel chilling his heart. He struggled against the ancient negation he sensed in this strange place, the stark hopelessness, a thousand years of denial.
“With respect — can you know this?”
“I can. I do. I have watched this evil grow since long before the wardens knew of it, and I have its measure.”
“Add to those few sorcerers, then, the many I suspect you have here in Thume. Add also yourself, the paramount power of a demigod. How then does the balance seem. Lady?”
“Closer,” she admitted, “but still not a fair fight. And you shall not draw on our powers. All we have is needed to preserve our security. We will not throw it away in a hopeless cause.”
His quest was doomed! Angrily Rap rose to his feet. He was handily the taller, yet so great was her might that he still felt prostrate before her.
“How can you hope to keep your presence secret? You know the dwarf’s mind. As his powers grow, so do his fears. If he rules all the world but Thume, then he will feel required to rule Thume, also. He will find you and he will crush you in your turn!”
“The land is hidden from him and will remain so,” the Keeper said with icy finality.
“Then may I take my child and depart in peace?”
The Keeper’s hollow eyes glittered. “No. I told you I may not meddle. I have answered your questions. To release you with what you know would be to influence events.”
He had suspected that. “You lay subtle traps!” he said bitterly.
“But unequivocal. You and the girl will remain. You will find life here tedious, perhaps, but it will be better than the torment Zinixo would impose upon you. And when you die, Sorcerer, you will deed us your words of power in payment for your board.”
“But —”
“Such is my decree.” The Keeper and her chair faded like smoke into the dark, leaving the Chapel empty. The grave in the corner continued to pour forth its thousand-year lamentation.
Hope never comes:
&nb
sp; A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flam’d; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv’d only to discover signs of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.
Milton, Paradise Lost, I, 60
EIGHT
Minstrel boy
1
Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!…
Blood Wave II rushed over the gray sea with a bone in her teeth, lifting her head in time to the strokes, riding the long swell. Banked oars moved as one, brawny rowers moved as one, breathed as one: blades up, heads down; heads up, blades down; stroke, stroke!
The pace was merciless. Gath had never seen Drakkor drive his crew like this. It seemed impossible that those gasping, sweating men could stand the strain a moment longer. Veins bulged in scarlet faces. Almost every oar handle was smeared with fresh blood, yet not a man aboard would even want to quit, because there was a race in progress. They would sooner die than lose, all of them.
It seemed rather silly to Gath. He was only half jotunn — two quarters, to be exact — so perhaps his mixed blood didn’t have the right ingredients to let him understand how plowing a beach ten minutes ahead of another crew could be worth all this torture. More important, his prescience made him quite certain that Blood Wave was going to win. That did take the thrill out of things.
The cliff ahead rose sheer from the ocean, its toes standing in a welter of white surf like fleece. Blood Wave would pass that reef to starboard, and very close. To larboard, and even closer, Seadragon matched her pace. He could hear the hoarse intake of breath from their crew over the cold wind, the cold salt wind that must feel so kind to all the overheated, half-naked rowers.
He was on water duty with Vork, moving down the lines with a water skin, squirting into open mouths as the heads went back at the end of the stroke. Three or four mouthfuls per man, a quick cooling drench on the head, then on to the next. It was infinitely easier work than the actual rowing, but it required every bit as much care. If he stumbled into an oar or even shot the jet into a man’s face and threw him off his timing, then all the Gods would not save him from the thane’s fury — or the crew’s, for that matter. He would be torn apart.