The Darkling Hills

by Lori Martin

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t remember anyone by that name. But it doesn’t matter. If he’s a listtel he’s bound to be at least a distant relation.” Nichos laughed, and stood. “If I may see you before I leave, Commander?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Come to dinner, in fact. The slop the cook makes is served up after sunset.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Following their directions, Nichos headed down the stream behind headquarters, past bathing men. A shack he supposed was Teleus’s stood a little off by itself. A guard outside looked irritable. He glared at Nichos as he dismounted.

  “Well?”

  “Good day to you. I’d like to speak to Teleus, please.”

  “You and everybody else,” the man said rudely. ‘You’ll have to wait.”

  “But I –”

  “Go off now, civilian!” He evidently considered the term an insult.

  “Who are you shouting at now, Quienos?” A burly man put his head out the door. “You’re supposed to be screening my visitors, not abusing them.” He spotted Nichos and raised an eyebrow.

  “Good day to you, cousin. I am Nichos, herald of the Assembly.” The title was directed, loudly, at the guard.

  “There, you see, Quienos? Your tongue’s made you an enemy right in the Assembly.” Teleus’s eyes, set deep in the dark brown face, were friendly. “Come in, herald, come in.” Nichos looked coldly at the guard and swept into the shack.

  “Forgive me for breaking in on you like this. I’ve just come into camp and spoken to the commander. The Assembly’s put through a delay in operations, and I’m staying the week, before reporting back.”

  “Another delay? The commander will choke. And what can I do for you?”

  “Well, cousin,” Nichos said cheerfully, “I heard another listtel was in camp –”

  “Oh, I’m not the only one. And?”

  “And one of the advantages of being a listtel is being able to call a perfect stranger kin, and demand hospitality and lodging from him.”

  Teleus looked, and started to laugh. “Oh, I see! Well then, cousin, you’re certainly welcome to stay with me. But I warn you the accommodations are quite poor. Quienos! Bring in the herald’s bags!”

  As Nichos unpacked a few necessities, Teleus set about discovering their exact relationship (“And so your grandmother’s aunt married who?”). He concluded that they were fourth cousins, twice removed, though how he arrived at that Nichos could not tell. He rolled his clothes under the second bed, which had been dragged in by the unwilling Quienos.

  “Robbed from a tent,” Teleus said. “Officer’s privilege. What’s that?” Nichos had unwrapped a small canvas from between his clothes.

  “Oh,” he said awkwardly, “it’s a painting.”

  “May I see?” It was a portrait of Nichos from the back, head turning over his shoulder, as if the person holding the painting had called to him. The eyes looked out questioningly, the soft hair flung out, scarlet scarf loose on the almost-black throat. “It’s quite good,” Teleus said.

  “It was a gift, from a friend.”`

  “A talented friend. A listtel?”

  “No, he said, and thought of Pillyn’s blond hair on her pale shoulders. She had given it to him the day before she left.

  CHAPTER 17

  As soon as he entered the palace he felt something was wrong. It had been growing on him, beginning as a faint irritation, then a small worry, when she was late in meeting him. When the morning began its turn to afternoon he came to Marlos-An to look for her. Now he was anxious. He did not have her gift, but he knew something had happened.

  “... called me sooner,” the queen was saying, plunging out of Dalleena’s room. “This has got to be broken. It’s high enough to kill.” Lilli ran beside her, out of breath and flustered.

  “I’m sorry, my queen. It just came on her suddenly this morning and I didn’t know what to do – I didn’t think anyone would come, no one serves her now except me – ”

  “He’ll come,” Ayenna said. “He had better come.” She swept past Rendell unseeing – he had to jump back to get out of her way – and shouted down the stairwell for the servants. Four or five appeared, faces turned up.

  “Send for healer Lindis,” the queen ordered. “My daughter is very ill.”

  “There’s a healer on the Second, my queen –”

  “No, I want Lindis. He’s the best. Well, hurry up, go!” They began to scatter. “And if he doesn’t wish to serve her,” Ayenna cried after them, “tell him he’ll have to answer to me!”

  “Lilli, what is it?” Rendell demanded. “What’s the matter with her?”

  “Fever. High fever. She couldn’t get out of bed –”

  The queen turned abruptly, and this time they actually crashed into each other; he almost knocked her down. A bow and apology didn’t seem to be enough. He went down on one knee.

  “You!” Ayenna said, her entire opinion of him expressed in the word. She vanished into Dalleena’s room.

  He came in behind her and stopped. Dalleena was stretched out in the bed, half buried in the pillows, her face flushed even in her sleep. Lilli pushed past him, a cloth in her hand. She dipped it in a basin of water and sponged Dalleena’s face with it. As he watched, the droplets seemed to vanish from her skin, like water spattered into a pan on the open fire. Just yesterday she had been all right. Maybe a little tired, that was all.

  He hovered over the bed, running his hands along her forehead and shoulders. Heat radiated from her. Even her breath burned.

  “I changed her sleeping gown twice,” Lilli said. “She was drenched in sweat, but the fever just kept getting higher.”

  “Dalleena? Dalleena, can you hear me?”

  There was no response.

  “Get out of the way, Armasii,” the queen said. “Give me that cloth. This water should be colder.” She plunged it into the basin again and wrung it out, then energetically bathed Dalleena’s arms and neck. “You should have called me sooner.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lilli said again, stricken. Rendell knew that neither of Dalleena’s parents had been near her since the council’s verdict of exile.

  Even in his worry it did not seem too long a time between the sending for and the arrival of the healer. Lindis was a middle-aged man, with a matted gray beard hanging almost to his chest. He had learned his craft from his mother and was a favorite among women, particularly in childbirth. His skills had helped Ayenna all through her own pregnancy, and seen Dalleena through her infant sicknesses. Contrary to their fears, he had answered the summons readily.

  While Lilli, flustered, tried to explain how the fever had come on, he peered into Dalleena’s eyes, his thumb planted on her eyebrows and pulling up the lids. To Rendell the pupils looked dilated, unfocused. Lindis took her head between his palms and rolled it gently from side to side, feeling along the back of her neck, the veins of his hands standing out prominently. Her hot labored breathing rustled through his beard.

  “The queen will stay, of course,” he said. For a moment Rendell did not understand. Then his eyes met Lilli’s and, taking the hint, they withdrew, to stand together in the adjoining alcove. Lindis continued his examination. The relas – or former relas – was one thing, but he would not suffer Rendell.

  “She keeps telling me everything’s fine,” Rendell said. “Lilli, has it been – has she – is it going normally?”

  “You mean her pregnancy? Well, I’ve had no children. But I never saw my mother have problems like this. Weak and not eating much, and her legs and fingers bloated all the time. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? I just don’t know what’s causing it.”

  He kicked his foot along the floor. In both their minds was the fear that it was somehow because of the child, the “unnatural” child.

  Suddenly there was a commotion in the other room. Ayenna screamed; there was a loud crash as the basin hit the floor. They rushed back, and Rendell saw Lindis doubled over the bed, fighting to hold Dalleena down. She wa
s writhing, her head thrown back, eyes open and staring, choking noises coming from her mouth. She kicked out, her back rigidly arched.

  The gods have pity, he thought, and felt the first stirring of despair. Please, not convulsions!

  But in the next two days she had seven more. The healer was unable either to stop them or to break the mounting fever. In delirium she sometimes called out, asking for Rendell or her mother, but when they answered she did not recognize them. Once she whispered, “Tell Inama – Inama –”

  “Tell her what, Dalla?” Ayenna asked gently, but again there was no answer.

  Rendell lost track of the hours. He sat in a chair beside the bed, watching and listening, occasionally falling into a shallow sleep. On the other side Ayenna waited. She ignored him as much as possible. Lilli took to sleeping in the servants’ room, in the bed once occupied by Adrell. Sometimes they could get a little broth or water into her, though her mind was never clear. Twice or three times a day Lindis came, administering his drafts, when she was strong enough to take them. At other times he bathed her in an herb mixture that had always – until now – conquered a high fever. He took her limp hands and worked the fingers back and forth, noting the increasing swelling. Rendell’s eyes followed every movement.

  Outside the sickroom, though he did not know it, the palace began to brood. The king found Dalleena’s rooms unbearable, and he prowled the halls restlessly and without speaking, a mist-deity in royal clothes.

  Another morning came with punishing heat. Rendell found his chest heaving with the effort to take in air. He glanced at the bed; she had not moved. Across from him the Queen was staring down at the floor in a dark reverie. He got out of his chair clumsily, his joints stiff from hours of sitting. Careful to be quiet, he stepped outside into the hall, needing a moment’s escape. He stood pressed up against the wall, eyes closed. Gradually, as his head cleared, he could hear voices below.

  “... live to see these times,” a deep voice was saying. “Not in my father’s times or my grandfather’s, or his grandfather’s, was it ever like this. And she’s brought it down on herself.”

  “It’s the child bringing it down on her,” a woman answered. “And maybe it’s killing her. But she was always good to me and I’m not forgetting it.”

  Someone murmured assent. Another voice began to recount a story of how the relas had helped him one summer, when the King had wanted to dismiss him; another woman was talking of her eldest son’s illness and how the relas had known he would pull through. Rendell crept to the head of the stairs and knelt, staying behind the top of the curving banister. He peered down.

  The hallway below was crowded with people. They seemed to be mostly servants, though he saw a few who must be tradesmen. Sitting and standing, jostled together, it was obvious they had been there for hours.

  They’re keeping watch, he thought. A few days ago they wouldn’t speak to her. Now they’re keeping watch for her.

  The first man said, “It’s a punishment from the gods. She’ll go the way of Inama, see if she doesn’t.”

  “Pray Nialia, no.”

  “But it’s Nialia’s doing! It’s the best for all of us. Do you want to see the creature born?”

  “The council decided she would live,” another man said. “Do you know better?”

  “Not me. But the goddess does, doesn’t she? She’s sending down her own verdict.”

  “Shut your mouth,” the first woman said. “You should be ashamed, Jenid. Even if it’s true, is it something to gloat over? Who do you think you’re talking about? The relas she was, a true-chosen, and as fair and generous as you could ask for. By the gods, I’m old enough to remember her name-receiving, and so are you. The procession and the cheering and the wine – these younger ones here have never seen the likes of it, not even at the festival.”

  “And we loved her,” another voice said unexpectedly. He was an older man, sitting on the very bottom stair. “We loved her.”

  Jenid took up the argument. Someone agreed with him, and voices got louder, until one of the serving girls hushed them. The older man said nothing more. He tilted back his head, glancing up the staircase, and paused. His eyes met Rendell’s. He stayed quiet. It was Rendell who dropped his look first. He withdrew, and went back into the sickroom.

  Now we’re all keeping watch, Dalleena, his eyes told her. The figure on the bed was still.

  On the fifth day the healer found that he could no longer despise Rendell. Ayenna had left her place and fallen in exhaustion into the servant’s bed, lying – impossibly – beside Lilli; the same sheet was bunched over their knees. Rendell stayed at the side of the sickbed, looking at Dalleena’s closed eyelids.

  Standing across from him, Lindis studied his face, reading the symptoms of love and fear far more easily than the illness of his baffling patient. As he looked, Rendell raised his head, bringing up two tortured eyes, shot with blood and swollen.

  “Is she going to die?”

  In the quiet they could hear the voices still murmuring below. Marlos-An waited.

  The healer said, “You should get some sleep.”

  “Is she going to die?”

  Lindis felt the anger flare up again, as he thought that Rendell and Rendell’s child were the cause of it all. His sense of justice fought it down. This man would never have harmed her. He felt that he owed him the truth.

  “Yes.”

  Rendell turned again to the flushed face on the pillows. A corner of his mouth dragged down, like a hurt child’s. Lindis shook his head. He gathered his belongings together softly, rolling the cloth, putting away the herbs, and left, closing the door soundlessly.

  Rendell didn’t move. In her dreaming darkness Dalleena tossed back her head, the firedust hair somehow robbed of its brilliance, dull and heavy now, sliding down her skin. Her face fell toward him. He could feel the fiery exhalations on his throat. He leaned closer and knelt beside her, laying his lips on her burning cheek. “You have to live, and so does our child.” He lifted his head. A far memory came to him, stained with wine. At the festival, and asking for the relas’s pardon. “Please forgive me,” he whispered. With an effort he managed to stand. He paused, unwilling to stop looking, paused again, and gathered himself. He turned.

  Dalleena neither saw nor heard him, as he went from the room, and from her life.

  A day or two, perhaps three if the road gave out; he hoped it could not be more than that. The road split now into two forks, the left running up, he knew, to the top of the Fifth Hill, and the temple of Reulas. The right was never taken. It slanted beneath into the deserted woods.

  Man and horse took the right fork. It wound downward, past the outskirts of the last farm, the last market already well out of sight. Leaves had begun to fall, crackling under the horse’s hooves. He felt vaguely that this had some kind of significance, but what it was had left him. In another hour the road took a turn upward, and opened out into a clearing.

  At the center stood an altar, of rough stone, and old. Beneath him the horse shied nervously. He tried to soothe it. The smell of old blood was thick in the air; he could see the dark stains running down the altar’s sides to the ground. The man understood. It was an appeasement, to hold back the evil, and keep it from drawing closer to their homes. He urged the unwilling animal forward, and wondered how many years upon years it had been since any had passed beyond this point.

  When dusk came on he found a grazing place and tied the horse to a tree. He rolled out two blankets, stretching out on one and bunching the other beneath his head. Above him the god of the moon sheltered behind clouds, and left him in the growing darkness. He did not eat.

  The dawn was gray and quiet. He rinsed his mouth with water and spat it out; he carried no food with him. His beard, begun without choice in the weeks before, was thick now – she had said it suited him. He rubbed a hand through it fretfully, and went to saddle the horse.

  By high-sun he could smell the Sea. He had not often been this close to it. The sha
rp tang of it bit into his lungs. It seemed a part of the purging. Around him the foliage was thick, but pale somehow, as if the sun was never strong here. His eyes rested on the faded shades of green.

  The color of life. “The living things around you, the trees, the grass, the plants striking into the air, these are green,” the old priest had said. They had gazed at him in silent respect. “Brown is mourning, you know that. And why? Because it is the shade of the trees when the leaves have left them, when the life is gone. In this temple we wear the cloaks of green.” But we are a temple of Strength, someone said. “Yes, it is the same, because life is strength. It is the most powerful force, the unconquerable. Kill and kill again, something still will live.”

  Something will live. One falls, one stands, another generation leaves its work to its children. He thought of his mother, the strength of her life leaving her, passing into the baby at its birth. For the first time in many years, he had a clear remembrance of her. She was already heavy with child; they were out by the brook; another small figure was clinging to her thighs. The water was so cold. His bare foot slipped on the stones, and the next moment he was wet to the waist and muddy. Nurse would be cross. But the woman on the brook’s edge was laughing, teasing. It was all right. It was funny. The small shadowy figure beside her took a half-step forward, but she caught his hand, and held it. It must have been his brother. Go ahead, she smiled, try again, and this time he made it to the other side. Mother, I did it. I did it! Did you see? Mother! – Mother, did you mind it very much, leaving us? Passing on the strength?

  There was no longer a true road to follow, only a partial path that wove silently away in the half-light. It was covered with the dead vegetation of many years, but no living growth sprang beside it. He walked the horse slowly now. It had to be this way, he hoped; there was no other opening. But perhaps whatever way there had been had long since been covered over, hidden by stone and earth and tree. What then? How many others had tried to make the journey? How many had failed even to find it, and had gone on, to rave down into the endless Sea?