by Lori Martin
On her side Dalleena discovered that a feeling of entrapment was not confined to royalty. Heavy family responsibilities evidently had the same effect, although Rendell never actually admitted that he felt confined. He talked only of his worry for his father’s health and his unruly brother’s future. Pillyn, at least, was somehow growing into a beautiful and talented woman, completely to her own credit. He’d have to show Dalleena some of her paintings one day. A message had come from the travelers; his father gave a few facts on the horses and how quickly they were moving, nothing personal. Pillyn had slipped in a note, reporting that Baili’s continual tricks had so enraged the cook that she had refused to feed him for two days. Pillyn shared with him, but not much. She didn’t want to spoil the cure.
“That will probably be the last message you get, until the official one from the Mendale Assembly.”
“But that will be sent to the king. You’ll have to tell me about it.”
No further seeings had come to Dalleena. Rendell thought of the dying vines on Armas’s altar and said nothing. Sometimes Dalleena would shake off her hood, despite the cold, and for a moment he would see the curve of her neck. Then the glittering black waves of her hair tumbled down. For a few moments his breathing would become ragged. At such times his own basic honesty would have forced him to think of his real feelings, but at such times he could not think at all. They never touched one another.
Once a wildness took Dalleena and she challenged him, shrieking, to a race. Rendell forgot himself, giving chase, and shouted, “Lilli was right! You really don’t know anything about being a royal!” Laughing and panting, dodging along the bank, they did not see the shadow who crept stealthily along behind, keeping out of sight.
CHAPTER 9
–from the Book of the Gods
The new people did prosper, and worship the gods, and spread among the hills. Though they were mortal, their lives were peaceful and happy, and ended without pain. Children came into the world without sorrow, and the sun was gold upon them. So easy were their lives that they did multiply, and the lands were thick with them. All that they planted grew; all that they wished for was permitted them. Soon they ceased to honor the gods, saying that they themselves were more numerous, and able to provide their young with all things, refusing immortal help.
Now Nialia of Fate is also the Mother, and before her were her sons. The lesser animals of the world have births of many, and the fish of the sea have births of thousands. But to the people of the earth it is given that one child shall come from one birth alone unto himself, and so be loved for it. Thus then do mortal women speak of the One, for never do they carry more, this One who will live and grow, and love another to be whole. But the children of Nialia are Simsas and Reulas, the gods of the musician and the poet, as inseparable as their art, and in her greatness did she bring them forth at one birth. Came Simsas first, as the first notes sound upon the flute, and Reulas after, his hand upon his brother’s ankle, the words to lift the music. And on the one shoulder of each is their mark, a blue seal etched into immortal flesh. The blue is for their royalty, sons of Nialia and Proseras, and the seal is the sign of their joining. Thus are they called the Twins, or the Twain, and two is the divine number.
Now Reulas had a gentle heart, but Simsas his brother was stern, and said to his mother, “Nialia Queen of all, look you how these creations of the earth do turn against us. The living birds and creatures of the sky and land do our bidding, and the seas team with fish according to our words. But these you have created, divine Mother, and you, King Proseras my father, these with your greatest gifts are faithless and ungrateful. Do you destroy them, as they deserve.”
“Nay,” said soft-hearted Wintern, who guides men on their travels. “Do not destroy them, for they are ours, and do not understand. Let us take away our divine blessings, so they will know more clearly the gifts we give them.”
Proseras the Wise shook his head. “If we should take the light of the sun, and the harvests from the earth, and let the streams dry and the rivers cease to flow, then will they understand. But we would parch the land and kill all life, even to the smallest bird the sprites have made for my pleasure. Such would not be justice. The people must be punished only unto themselves.”
Now his Queen Nialia spoke. “My husband, let us send to the deep recesses of the world, and ask of Death. He takes these mortals at the end, and will know how to strike fear into their hearts.” For Death is a great and terrible brother to the heavenly gods, who call him as one of their own. But the god lives alone in the bowels of the earth and shuns the light. Only Wintern, great Traveler, would journey to the door of Death to bring the question: How shall the mortals be punished?
Wintern listened, and the deep hissing voice of Death replied, “Send me first a wife, and then shall I tell how the mortals will be punished.” And when the Traveler returned with the answer of the dark one there was consternation among the gods, for no immortal can mate with Death. At last Armas and Tain, great Craftsman, fashioned a woman from stone and wood, and breathed substance into her. Not of living flesh, she could not die; not divine, she could not be immortal. To Death she bore a daughter, and it was the task of Death’s child to punish the mortals.
She is called Sanlin, but her real names are Pain, and Fear, and Sickness. She dwells in a dark cave beyond the Hills on the edge of the unending Sea, and sends out her poisoned darts to strike men down. The mortals knew agony, and torment, and horror, and they prayed to the heavens for release. But some of these still were faithless, cursing the gods in their suffering, and were driven from the Hills by the wrath of Armas. They wandered far out upon the land and were called Mendales, godless and unsheltered, and some went beyond the Valtah and were lost. Yet some repented, and stayed within the Hills and were called Lindahnes, people beloved of the heavens. For Proseras saw that they did repent, and he heard their prayers, and took pity upon them.
“Who is born cannot be unborn,” said the Wise god. “Yet let us have mercy on these who have remained faithful, and suffer under Sanlin. For she strikes them with pain, and fear, and sickness, and sends them to Death her father. How shall we break her power?”
“Nay,” answered Nialia, “she will be as she has been and we cannot change her nature. But look you, I have seen the people in their pain. To watch one that they love pass through a torturous death, this is their greatest agony, and wrings more tears than pain within themselves. Sanlin and her dark father will have their sacrifices, but we may grant one release from this, the greatest suffering. If a man wishes to save another, let him go to the Arch of Sanlin, and offer himself to her, in place of the other. And if he gives himself with a whole heart, and does not repent of it, still he will die, but the one he loves will be spared.”
This was granted, and the Lindahnes were true, and honored the gods, keeping their words. And once in a thousand years a man or woman will have the courage to seek out the Arch of Sanlin, and for the sake of another pass through, and offer the sacrifice. But in the dark and burning hell of her cave, facing her, they do repent of it, and are destroyed. Then the other dies also, for Sanlin knows the sacrifice has not been pure, and will not accept of it.
But it is told that one man faced Sanlin, and did not repent, his love sustaining him in his terrible fear. Armillus entered the Arch of Sanlin to beg his brother’s life, for the child lay dying, and sobbing in his restless sleep. Such love had Armillus that his heart was true even in its terror, and the offering was given uncorrupted from his soul. And Sanlin, most pitiless of the immortals, saw his steadfastness and had mercy, for though he fell his brother lived.
Thus then does she take her sacrifices, and brings them to the black halls of her father’s house. And this is the punishment, for the folly of mortals.
CHAPTER 10
The horses were scenting warmer air, but the riders, without their instincts, still scanned the clouds for snow. The land had begun to change, growing flatter and seemingly wider. Baili in his chil
dhood could also hear the far-off sound of spring. He slept in the back of the cart with his face turned up to the sun.
A bump in the road jolted him. At the same moment the driver said, “Well, here is it, young master. What do you think of Mendale?”
He jumped up with a yelp, instantly awake and made of eyes. In the approaching distance a town was becoming visible. The country before and around it was flat and open, and the buildings were huddled together as if for protection. Farmland swept out on both sides. The houses of Bali’s homeland were often curved, with unexpected additions and jutting staircases. These Mendale homes were square and symmetrical, larger in actual size but smaller in feeling. To eyes accustomed to the Hills, where the homes of small farmers dotted the slopes and noble estates surrounded the bottoms, the very sky seemed to slant down too directly on the Mendale town.
“Colorful place,” remarked the driver, with a true Lindahne reaction. The farmlands rippled beige and green in the breeze; in the distance cattle grazed. The stones buildings were capped by roofs not of the orange and brown favored by Baili’s people, but of deep blues or greens, or bleached white. They sprang up aggressively to meet the air.
“Pillyn!” the boy shouted, but without turning his head from the scene.
“I see,” she called back. Her artist’s eye scanned the picture for possible future use.
“Tighten up,” Boessus ordered, and the excited servants dropped their horses back, arranging themselves into a kind of formation. The town had no protective wall and was open to them. A curving arch, which seemed merely ceremonial, marked the town’s beginning. As they drew closer they could see the people coming in from the fields and out of their homes to inspect the arrivals. A crowd gathered with an official of some sort waiting in front to receive them – or turn them away.
“Hold,” said Boessus. His company halted. He urged his horse forward and regarded the sea of faces before him. A similar Lindahne group would have been silent and watchful; instead the Mendales were murmuring, discussing the visitors. Boessus’s eyes came to rest on the official standing at the center, and he was startled to see that the man’s skin was almost black, as was his hair. Vaguely he remembered that the dark-skinned Mendales were an offshoot of a noble family of the Assembly, raised to inherited political positions. It was probably an honor to be greeted by one.
With great courtesy he said, “Good day to you, friend Mendale. I am Boessus of the Third Hill, the chosen ambassador of the royals of Lindahne. We ask passage to your capital and the mighty Trio, that we may pay our respects.”
The dark head bowed. “Greetings to you, noble ambassador. I am Nichos, herald of the Assembly, and nephew to Forlas, the Third Tribune. We welcome you to Mendale. I have been awaiting your arrival.”
It seemed impolite to remain mounted when the other was on foot. Boessus slid off his horse and motioned to Pillyn to do the same. She dismounted nervously and bowed.
“My daughter, Pillyn Lista,” Boessus said. Nichos smiled for the first time, murmuring that he was honored. Pillyn tried a tentative smile back and said, “I’m very happy to be seeing your country, herald.” She should have stopped there but nerves made her blurt out, “Especially after all these days on horseback.”
Her words brought up vividly the sore muscles and small indignities of excessive riding. She could see the people in the forward edges of the crowd stifling grins. She bit her tongue between her back teeth. The Mendale smiled again and said cheerfully, “Then we’ll walk,” and the formality was gone. Everyone relaxed.
“You are all welcome to our home!” he shouted to Boessus’s train. “Come this way, please!”
They all dismounted and followed him, leading their horses through the gate. Nichos took the reins of Pillyn’s horse and strode ahead with her through the crowd, which parted for them. They smiled at each other over the horse’s muzzle. Boessus was pleased with his daughter’s diplomacy. He bowed his head to the people as he passed, and they bowed their acknowledgements. He continued to scan their faces.
In the cart Baili felt like a hero, beaming and waving. “I’m going to like them,” he told the driver. “Why would we ever go to war?”
“Hush!” the driver hissed. “Just smile!”
Later that night, before falling asleep in the comfortable bed provided in the one government building in town, Boessus ran the scene again before his mind’s eye. His last thought before he passed into darkness was that the Mendales all seemed to be strangely gaunt.
Nichos Mendale escorted them all the way to MenDas, the capital city of the country. It was a bustling metropolis, appearing to Pillyn’s rural eyes as if the hectic activities of their own Marlos-An had been extended into all the neighboring towns. There were two main roads and seemingly hundreds of winding off-streets. The heart of the town was the seat of government, the Assemblage House, where the Assembly met tri-weekly. The huge square building had three long horizontal attachments: these were the private quarters of the Trio. The rest of MenDas swirled about this center, with private homes, markets, trading centers, and the two-or-three-storied blue buildings of the artisans.
“What are those?” Pillyn asked, as they rode along the main road. In Lindahne, only nobles had several-storied homes.
“They belong to the artisans,” Nichos answered. “They don’t live there, but they work there with their apprentices. Their private homes are down the smaller streets, rather crowded together. Most of the families of the nobility have estates in the countryside that support them here in town. My own home is south of here, a good four-day ride away.” Nichos had proved talkative, willing to explain any points, major or minor, on which he was questioned. Their passage through the capital brought the inevitable stares from the townspeople, who paused in their frantic activities to watch them go by. Pillyn felt uncomfortable, and talked to distract herself. Baili genuinely wanted to know. He was riding doubled up in the saddle in front of Pillyn.
“Do you have a house in town?” he asked. Few of the adults around him, Lindahne or Mendale, had ever proved as patient as Nichos was with his desire to be a part of every conversation. As a consequence the boy was already attached to him.
“Unfortunately no,” Nichos said. “I became the herald of the Assembly only recently, having succeeded to it through the death of my elder sister. But I do have very comfortable rooms in my uncle’s quarters in the Assemblage. His name is Forlas, the Third Tribune.”
“That means he’s part of the Trio?”
“Yes. He has been a Tribune for five years now.”
“Why isn’t he the First Tribune?” Baili demanded.
“Baili!” Pillyn admonished, horrified, but Nichos laughed.
“You see, little one,” he explained, “he has only been in the Trio for five years, as I said. The Second Tribune has been there seven, and the First almost ten. However, this doesn’t mean the First has more power. All of the Trio are equal.”
“In theory at least,” Boessus broke in unexpectedly. His mind had been on his upcoming speech.
The Mendale nodded. “It is true,” he agreed, “that the longer a Tribune has been in office, the more – well, friends – he is likely to have in the Assembly.”
They reached the Assemblage, and were conducted to their magnificent suites, set well back from the street in a previously unused area of the Second Tribune’s apartments. Pillyn, however, was disturbed to see their servants crowded in with unwilling Mendale servants. To her maid-girl’s whispered complaints, she answered truthfully that there was nothing she could do about it.
Boessus’s speech to the assembly went well. He explained, for the benefit of the younger members of the government, the Lindahne system, adding assurance that a change in Holds did not in any way change the relations between the two countries. The high point of his remarks was an impassioned plea for continued goodwill between their peoples. He was old enough to remember war (although he had been too young to serve) and strongly believed in the royals’ commi
tment to peace. The applause was thunderous, and the old man flushed with pride. That night Pillyn sat with him, as he coughed up blood.
The next day he was closeted with the Second Tribune. Pillyn sat alone with Nichos, overlooking a garden behind the Assemblage. Whether his continued attentions were part of his duties or his own idea she was uncertain. Despite her general suspicion of Mendales she was beginning to warm to him.
He was drinking a slightly sour herbal concoction, made from a Mendale plant called rentar, which made Pillyn’s mouth pucker. He was equally at home with conversation and silence, undisturbed by questions or pauses, relaxed and leaning back in his chair. Pillyn had at first been startled by his coloring; now she was fascinated by it. His skin was almost ebony, but the hair, straight and soft, was a lighter brown shade. The eyes were even lighter, hazel shot with green and yellow. His lips were thin and deep red, the nose small and pointed. At first she had been uncertain of his age, but had now gathered that he was in fact older than Rendell, which she found somehow offensive. His clothes were generally flashes of bright scarlet embroidery on golden silk, his long legs encased in thigh-high velvet boots. Altogether he was the most exotic creature she had ever seen.