by Lori Martin
THE
DARKLING
HILLS
Lori Martin
Copyright © 1986, 2013 by Lori Martin
All rights reserved.
Originally published:
New American Library, 1986
Signet, 1988
For Flavian with my love
and
To my mother with my thanks
Special thanks to Shelley Nass
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
And these shall be my people,
The goddess said,
And they shall be mine.
The land of Lindahne rises into five hills, each embroidered with homes of soft orange and brown, each ending in a temple, a crown of white at the crest. The valley below and between seems to sway gently, as the dark bengrass reaches up and kneels again to the wind. Quiet and uncomplicated, the Lindahnes live secure in a small world, ringed by the protection of the Hills, which they do not travel beyond. To the north is the Valtah, a thundering and unconquerable river; to the west lies Mendale, country of their enemies. East and south is the unending Sea.
In the shadow of the First Hill the palace of Marlos-An stands, built in gleaming marble. Above it on the top of the Hill shines the temple of Nialia, goddess of fate. Nialia is the mother and the keeper, the sheltering power that holds back the circle of hostility beyond their borders. Yet she is also the dark force of uncertainty, the unanswering and implacable weaver of their lives. Lindahne is hers.
And on a day in early winter the palace goes about its business, readying itself, perhaps, for the festival. The queen is in Chair and ruling, but her three years of authority are almost ended: the winter solstice is coming. The festival will mark the beginning of the King’s Hold, and the scepter will return to him for another three years. Lindahne flows as surely but more serenely than the Valtah, through season after season, through the three-year cycle, power given back and forth between the royals, but always given from the goddess. “Forever past, forever to come,” they say in Lindahne, and they are arrogant in their faith.
The saying is wrought in fine gold on the inside of the ring worn by the “relas,” Dalleena, only child and heir of the royals. The gold encircles the carved flower of pink, the ever-blooming relasii, symbol of royal blood. Dalleena is twenty-one in this year, already a long-standing servant of the goddess. A Nialian has powers of prophecy: glimpses of a moment, a part, of Fate’s encompassing and infinite cloth. The woven threads of this year are dyed in dark colors, though neither Dalleena nor her people have yet been given the grace to see it. Nialia’s handiwork extends into darkness – but it is not the blackness of a night sky.
It is the harsh deep stain of blood, the blood from the heart.
CHAPTER 1
The Nialian women had already gathered outside the temple when Dalleena arrived for Sunset Rites. They stood in a semicircle facing west, their soft yellow robes trailing beneath heavy cloaks and fluttering in the wind. The high priestess Inama stood in front, her frail frame looking as if she would be blown away by a strong gust, but she was not shivering. Dalleena paused, her firedust hair glittering in the long waning rays of the sun. The apprehension that had pursued her all day, from one room of the palace to another, through every royal duty she had performed, now flooded into her chest. She contemplated the high priestess’s ancient serenity and then slipped in among the yellow robes.
Behind the Nialians a larger if less closely formed half-circle was composed of Lindahne villagers. They made way quietly for Dalleena: for the moment their relas, their royal heir, would be only one voice in the song. Dalleena noticed that the gathering was unusually large; villagers from the Second Hill must have come, as well as the regulars who lived here on the First. She wondered if they were coming for reassurance that the temple of Nialia, at least, was still undisturbed.
The normal murmuring of the crowd stopped abruptly when Inama lifted her arms. She stretched out her hands to the red globe sinking fast behind the temple. Its orange-and-gold rays flecked the white marble, giving it a glow of cold fire. Inama’s withered mouth opened and uttered a high, sweet note. The Nialian women repeated it in perfect pitch, beginning and ending as one.
The chanting began. The old priestess led it, weaving a new song from ancient melodies, as she did every evening. Each day’s song, as similar as each passing day was similar to the next, still held its own separateness, as each moment was unique from the ones that had gone before.
Through long practice and natural empathy the Nialians followed Inama’s voice. Dalleena felt the tension begin to fall from her. She locked arms with the other women as the line began to sway, her chest vibrating with the music springing from her. The song rose higher and faster as the last light faded. Behind them the villagers swayed in time, whispering blessings on the dying day, welcoming the night. The Nialians cried out together, holding the note with which they had first begun. The villagers joined in. The note was held, and still held, until Inama suddenly dropped her arms. All sound halted instantly. The sun set.
With the ending of the rites, the villagers began to disperse. Some of the Nialians also left, though others stayed to speak with Inama. As Dalleena waited patiently for them to leave, she overheard snatches of conversation from the passing villagers.
“I’m telling you, it’s a terrible moaning sound, and the people on the Third have been sent dreams – ”
“– and do you know they say the altar turned black, completely black?”
“–it means? I don’t know, but what’s the queen going to do about it is what I –”
“Hush, Shandel! Here’s the relas.” And then more loudly, “Good even’ to you, relas.”
“Good even’,” Dalleena replied. The villagers bowed and she nodded. “Good even’.”
Eventually she found herself alone. She passed under the high curving arch of the temple’s entrance into the outer court. The walls were made of the same translucent marble as the palace, stretching out almost unadorned into the darkness of the inner sanctuary. Only at the very top was the work of mortal hands apparent; the rest might have been set by immortal command at the beginning of time. The relief was carved with simple grace, showing a line of women, the first Nialians. At their head was the First Priestess, her name lost but her face vivid in the stone as she dared to lift her eyes to the goddess. Hanging candles sparked into flame as the priestess Inama moved slowly along, lighting them. Beneath her feet were inlaid mosaics, waiting again for the morning to show their crafted, colorful pattern: a loom with the threads of life, spreading out in all directions. In the half-shadows the firedust of Dalleena’s hair shimmered and caught the priestess’s attention.
“Good even’, daughter. I looked for you today,” Inama said. She smiled, the deep wrinkles surrounding still-sharp eyes. “You did not choose to answer?”
“No,” Dalleena said. With Inama, there was never a need for much conversation.
The priestess motioned, and Dalleena began obediently to light the candles on the opp
osite wall. When they spoke their voices echoed back and forth.
“There were so many people tonight,” Dalleena said. “From the Second, I think.”
“Perhaps farther. Perhaps from the Third.”
“It’s a long way to come, just for Sunset Rites.”
“The valley isn’t hard to cross on horseback,” Inama said. She lit her final candle and looked across at her. “And they’re worried.”
“Yes, I felt it.” Dalleena had reached one of the outer altars, where the villagers prayed. She dusted away the ashes of the incense, careful to keep them from falling on the mosaics. “Actually I heard some of it. And they’re talking of nothing else at the palace – the dying vines, the moaning sounds, the blackened altar, all the omens at Armas’s temple. But as long as we’re not troubled here, as long as Nialia’s house is quiet –” She broke off. Continuing down the line of candles, she reached the hangings of the inner sanctuary. She veered suddenly away and almost collided with Inama. The old woman caught at her hands and held them. They looked at each other.
Smiling gently, Inama said, “And has it been so quiet?”
Dalleena stared into her eyes. A chill draft made the candles flicker. “She’s calling me,” she whispered. “I felt her. All day, pulling at me –”
“And you haven’t answered,” Inama said. Her voice rasped with age. “Why?”
“I’m afraid.” Their hands tightened together. “I’ve never been afraid before!” she cried out. “I don’t know what to do!”
The sudden sound vibrated in the stillness. For a moment she thought she heard an answering echo from the sanctuary. Then her shoulders sagged, with weariness or resignation. “Yes, I do,” she said.
Inama released her hands. She kissed her, her lips scratchy on Dalleena’s soft cheek. “Go in then, and go with trust. I’ll look for you tomorrow.” With a final reassuring pat, the priestess turned away.
Dalleena was left alone in front of the sanctuary. Inside the goddess waited. Slowly her hands parted the hangings of the entrance.
At first the smoke came. Rolling gray clouds whispered across her flesh and smothered her vision. The voices began their chanting, high-pitched in swift incoherent words, and as always there was fear. Fear and the moments of waiting and longing. The soul opened, layer after layer stripped back and exposed; the nerves sent shivering messages along the spine; the heart thundered. The goddess came closer, unseen but felt, and the chanting swelled to a deafening height. As Nialia came to her, Dalleena flung back her head, the muscles of her neck and arms twisting and tightening. A “seeing,” it is called, but there is no sight from human eyes – only the soul’s witness of the goddess, and a destiny in her hand.
How long a time had passed in the outer world she could not guess. Her head was aching. She was kneeling on the hard marble floor, her arms flung out upon the sacred altar as if in supplication. Gradually her eyes cleared and she was able to stand. Her winter cloak had somehow fallen, and her joints were stiff from the cold.
She moved automatically, retrieving the cloak and lighting a final offer of incense. A feeling of overwhelming sadness oppressed her. A sob struggled for release from her chest, but she closed her throat on it. In the darkness of the sanctuary she fought to be able to speak. Her lips formed the words. She forced her voice through them. “I will,” she said with sudden strength.
The goddess must have been satisfied, for she felt herself released. Her spirits lifted a little. She had been too long in the goddess’s hand, too long in her protection, to turn away now.
On the threshold of the outer entranceway she breathed in the night. Everything was still vague; Nialia would reveal what she wished only when she wished. Only one thing had been asked of her: her will and her purpose. And only one thing had been made clear: Whatever was waiting for her country, she – the relas, the blood heir of the royals – she was to bring it, to cause it. To be it.
She stumbled forward a few steps. Her cloak slipped again from her shoulders. She felt the air rush up past her face, and her hands clutched out frantically, but it was too late. She dropped unconscious to the ground.
The moon had risen higher in the sky by the time the Armasii mounted the hill. Rendell was a strong and graceful man, his hair blond, his delicate features hidden by the hood of his cloak. The garment’s green shade and the green stone at his throat would have warned Dalleena, if she had been able to see him; she would have stepped back and waited for him to pass. And he would have gone past her, seeing her yellow robe, without speaking. She was a Nialian, he an Armasii. There would have been nothing to say.
The gods of the Lindahnes make up a pantheon, all respected, all worshipped, but carefully ranked in their importance. The lesser gods numbered in the hundreds. Nialia stood at the head of the immortals, with her husband Proseras, whose own temple was on the Second Hill. The offspring of this couple were Simsas and Reulas, their temples crowning the Fourth and Fifth. Armas, the god of Power and Strength, had his home on the Third. Like the Lindahne noble families, each god had his own followers, the mortals they had called to themselves. But again like the nobles, final allegiance was owed to the Royal – the Mother Nialia. It was only right, then, that an Armasii – a follower of Strength – should also come to the house of Nialia to pray. Alone among all the Lindahnes, however, an Armasii had to be careful to come at odd hours when the temple was unattended; he had to avoid meeting a Nialian woman.
The tradition of dislike and distrust between Nialians and Armasii was ancient, and had solidified to a strict taboo on any but the most superficial contact between them. The Nialians saw the future in fire and wisps of smoke, acting on their seeings and the promptings of mystical and mysterious impulses. The followers of Armas were practical and realistic, worshipping a strength not physical but internal, a kind of steadiness, and they had little patience with Nialia’s dreamers. Planted firmly in past events, with a capable grasp of the present, they were forbidden by ancient law to marry among the Nialians, children of the future. It was believed that any child born of such a marriage would be godlike, having all time and knowledge in his hands, and the mortal shell could not contain it. Death or madness would result.
The taboo was so firmly implanted in Rendell that he stepped back at his first glimpse of the yellow-clad figure on the ground. A second look showed him that she must have fainted, or worse. With an exclamation of dismay he went to her, and committed his first sin.
He put an arm beneath her shoulders and carefully lifted her head up. A cut on her forehead was bleeding, and he used a corner of his cloak to blot it.
“Are you all right?” He patted her cheek, trying to rouse her. The soft stinging made her eyes open. For a moment the pupils rolled in her head. Then she focused on his face.
“Who –” she gasped, and she sat up, with his arm supporting her.
“Are you in any pain?”
“No – I –”
“Are you sure? What happened?”
Dalleena forced herself to consider. “I don’t know.” She looked over at the temple, at her cloak in a heap on the threshold, and back at the stranger’s face. “I came out – and then – I guess I must have fainted, but I don’t remember.”
Rendell shifted uneasily, still crouching beside her. Now that she was awake and speaking, he was uncomfortable in her presence, but he could not walk away. She was obviously disoriented, and unaware as yet that he was an Armasii.
Dalleena was still looking at him. He asked, “Is there anyone else here?”
“No, I was alone. I lit the candles – Inama had left – and then I went inside –” It flooded back to her. “There was so much smoke.”
Rendell glanced at the temple, quiet in the darkness. “Smoke?”
“In the sanctuary. She came to me so quickly, and the voices were so loud – almost painful – but she had been waiting. All day and I wouldn’t come. That must be why this has happened. I shouldn’t faint just from a seeing.”
T
he high priestess would have understood the exhaustion from the divine possession, and the near-babble as the mind struggled back to itself. Rendell knew only that he was hearing the secrets of a Nialian. He was horrified.
“Please, do you think you can stand?”
Dalleena barely heard him. As the aftereffects ran through her she was becoming more and more agitated.
“Calling me. Some part of me knew and wanted to stay away, but I have to come, I belong here. It’s more my home than – but I stayed away. I kept feeling her –”
Here at least was something he knew about. “But you have to answer an immortal,” he said.
Dalleena turned her burning eyes back on his face. “How do you know?” she demanded.
He said nothing. She took in his sudden calmness, the quiet knowledge in his eyes, the jewel at his throat, the meaning of the color of his cloak. It added to her confusion. To her own intense humiliation, she burst into tears.
“No, no, I’m all right,” she sobbed. “Leave me!”
She rose to her feet too quickly and was forced to clutch at his sleeve. Yanking away, she turned her back on him and hid her face in her hands.
At any other time Rendell would have taken this emotional storm as proof of what he had heard about the Nialians, but now he had understood her. “I know what it is, when it presses down on you,” he said.
Dalleena fought to control herself. “You do?” She spoke into her palms. “You’re an Armasii.”
“Yes. You see, I’m the same as you. I go where I am called.”
She turned slowly, trying to find some dignity. “And if you’re called to Armas, what are you doing here? The Third Hill is northeast, not west.”
“I know.” He matched her angry tone. “I happen to live there, Nialian. I see you’re better now. Good even’ to you.”
Dalleena was taken aback. “Wait!” she shouted. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. A blush came up into her cheeks, unrevealed by the night. “I beg your pardon,” she said more quietly. “You were kind enough to help me and I’ve been rude in return.” She held out her hand. Rendell hesitated. He should not touch her, of course, but it had already happened. “Please, you must forgive me. I wasn’t well.”