Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  A breath of dry air blew in the open window, rustled the papers on the shelves, set the kazsis-vine tapping against the brick arch. Ruric Orhlandis reached out and weighted down the papers on the table with her ceramic bowl.

  ‘And just how am I supposed to be muddying the water?’

  ‘By making known something that my predecessor let you believe – no, I won’t lie. Something he made you believe. It was done deliberately.’

  All the fear and insecurity that I felt in Maherwa returned in a moment, doubled and tripled; and then slowly began to ebb. I studied her face intently.

  ‘Perhaps I’ve got stupid as I’ve got older. Ruric, you’re going to have to spell it out.’

  I saw her take a breath. It is not a human movement, that sharp intake of arched ribs. Nictitating membrane slid down over her eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t my responsibility. I wasn’t even here. Christie, I feel ashamed.’ She rubbed at her forehead. The claws on that six-fingered hand were neatly trimmed. Then she flicked a sharp hard glance at me. ‘Sunmother! You don’t make it easy. This, then. The Hexenmeister who held the title before me … Well, there are drugs, as you’d call them. And techniques that sometimes come out of the inner city, that make one see or hear unrealities. Christie, trust nothing of what you thought happened to you when you were here before! He told you the lie that the Tower always tells, about memory; but he made you believe it.’

  Ruric paused, than at last added, ‘How can I say I’m sorry? I wasn’t even here then. I don’t know what made him do it, nor whether he knew that it would damage an offworlder as it’s damaged you. It’s an evil thing to have done.’

  I stared at her. ‘No. No, I know. I remember …’

  Again, that crooked smile. ‘I don’t expect you to believe what I say, what anyone in the Tower says. That’s another reason why I’m bringing other offworlders in. They’ll need proof, too. Proof that you’re – misinformed. You’ve half convinced that man Clifford.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I didn’t go through the last month just to – I know what I know! Ruric, it’s been hard enough to work it through. I know; I’m certain.’

  And then I thought again of that dark-maned Coast woman, Havoth-jair. Damaged. And my memory of how it happened is sharp and clear – and inaccurate. It wasn’t I who condemned her to that, it was Evalen Kerys-Andrethe (though I could have stopped it). If that memory is no memory at all …

  There was no time to think. Ruric turned as a brown-robed servitor came to the door of the room, exchanged a brief word, and nodded.

  ‘I’m told the government envoy is here.’

  In total disbelief and confusion, all I could manage to say was, ‘How can you let outsiders into the Tower?’

  ‘Because they are outsiders. I couldn’t allow my people in. There are things in the Tower, even if they’re not what you think is here. And Earth and I have to talk,’ Ruric said quietly. ‘If I’ve learned nothing else in eight years, I’ve learned the nature of the problem. I won’t try to solve it with fire or harur-blades this time. Christie, it’s been a long time, but believe this: I still won’t stand by and see your people ruin Orthe.’

  It’s impossible to take it in, I thought. He told you the lie that the Tower always tells, about memory, but he made you believe it.

  ‘… assure you this is a great privilege,’ Doug Clifford said smoothly, as brown-robed Ortheans ushered him into the small library-room. He frowned, then concealed it.

  ‘Give you greeting,’ the Orhlandis woman said. ‘Strange to meet, t’an Clifford, at last. I’ve had indirect dealings with you and your government for six years now.’

  ‘Hexenmeister.’ Barely a question in his voice. Is he familiar enough with my old reports to realize who she must be? Then I saw the curiosity even his diplomacy couldn’t hide, and realized yes, he knows.

  Ruric moved aside to talk to a fair-maned male in the Tower’s brown robes. While she talked, her gold-yellow eyes sought mine; veiled and cleared.

  Doug muttered, ‘Lynne, are you all right?’

  ‘No, but give me time.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said. ‘I’ve linked a time-alarm through the shuttle to the orbiter. If we’re not out of here within a reasonable time –’

  ‘Warning people we’re in here is one thing. Getting out may be another.’ Part of me observed that that was a sensible comment, considering the state of mind I was in. The rest was panic.

  The brown-robe left, and Ruric turned to face us.

  ‘The two offworlders from the PanOceania Company will be here soon. I’ve got things to say to you before they get here. T’an Clifford, you and Lynne Christie have influence so far as Orthe’s concerned; you want a policy of non-interference –’

  ‘May I ask how you come to that conclusion?’ Doug’s politeness was marked.

  ‘I hear things. The inner city.’ She looked at me. ‘“I’ll act as a source of inside information.” And the rest.’

  I watched her, waited. She walked across to the window, and reached up to slide a fretwork metal shutter halfway across the arch. Noon glare diminished. The shadow dappled the white del’ri-cloth of her shirt. Skin and mane vanished, blended with darkness.

  ‘I know what Christie’s told you. It’s important we start clean,’ Ruric said, ‘not believing lies and half-truths. T’an Clifford, there is Witchbreed science in the Tower. It’s not what Christie’s told you. We have to deal together, for Orthe. We have to believe each other. And so I’ll have to show you what the Tower’s Archives really are.’

  One step took her across the line the shutter cast, into the light of Carrick’s Star. Her face showed age in that white glare.

  ‘Whatever I choose, there’s a risk. To bring offworlders inside the Tower, tell them truths that my people don’t know – it’s dangerous. Letting you believe the lie is more dangerous. Especially since we may need Earth’s help.’ Her face changed when she looked at me. ‘I didn’t have to have you here, now. I owe it to you. For what the last Hexenmeister did. And for a lie I once told you.’

  All I could say, out of ten-year-old memories, was ‘How can we trust anything you say!’

  Her eyes shone clear and dark as amber resin. ‘I don’t expect belief from anyone.’

  Was it unspoken: except from you?

  ‘Come,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll leave it to you what report you make, t’an Clifford. Just don’t talk to my people.’

  Clifford sniffed, raised an eyebrow. ‘My government favours non-interference with alien cultures. It therefore follows one wouldn’t, shall we say, implement the dissemination of internal information …’

  I got up off the bench, finding my legs unsteady. The smell of old paper and parchment was momentarily so strong as to make me dizzy. Clifford took my elbow. For all his screen of verbiage, he was nervous; his hand trembled. The two of us followed the Orthean woman out into the corridor. I thought, I know the way …

  Here there was no sun, only a dim reflected mirror-light. Deeper into the interior of the Tower now, and the colour and texture of the walls changed, to a slick brown substance. I thought it all seemed smaller than ten years ago. But memory plays such tricks. At a dead-end corridor the Orthean woman and I halted simultaneously, only Doug Clifford caught off guard.

  He glanced at me, at the Orthean woman, and back to me. There was reassurance in his expression. For a moment, he would rather believe the impossibility: my story.

  What can she show us to change that? I wondered. And was so lost in thought that I barely registered the familiar repetition of entrance to the lower levels: the wall that split and slid aside, the small chamber that we stepped into, the pressure underfoot as it descended. Not until it halted, and the wall again parted to let us out, did I concentrate. Here, memory told me.

  I walked past them, out onto a cool high-roofed hall. There was faint light the colour of lilac and lightning. The walls were blue-grey chiruzeth. And not six yards from where I stood was the
first row of tomb-shaped objects. Chiruzeth sarcophagi. Large enough so that an Orthean or an offworlder might lie there enclosed …

  ‘Douggie, isn’t this what I said I saw?’

  The small man come to stand at my shoulder. The blue-pink light made his complexion look unhealthy. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Yes. Somewhat reminiscent of a siiran. I imagine about the same level and development of civilization could produce this.’ He glanced back. ‘How can you take the risk of letting anyone inside this installation, Hexenmeister?’

  ‘T’an Clifford, I don’t want the Tower ripped apart by offworlders looking for Old Technology. I know what PanOceania’s doing with the canals round Maherwa. It’s necessary they should know there’s nothing here useful to them.’

  The dark Orthean woman walked past us, to the tomblike object. The fingers of her single hand moved delicately on its carved rim. A faint iridescence glowed within the chiruzeth tank.

  But that’s not what happened when I –

  A voice whispered almost inaudible in the sarcophagus-tank, and an image grew. Faint, immobile. A still image.

  ‘Welcome to the Tower Archives,’ Ruric said sardonically. She again hitched herself up to sit on one corner of the chiruzeth device, and glanced round the distant reaches of the hall. ‘Not as impressive as it might be, is it? But precious. These devices can’t be replaced. Not now.’

  Archives?

  Clifford moved closer to the chiruzeth tank. ‘Hexenmeister, I have to confess that I don’t quite see the implications of what you’re telling us.’

  Ruric caught my eye, grinned. Her dark hand moved on the chiruzeth surface. The still image changed. The voice whispered.

  Without meaning to speak, I said, ‘That isn’t what these devices do!’

  Her head bowed over the tank, black mane falling forward. The image was of ziku and mossgrass. They grow in the Hundred Thousand. Unbidden, her hand came up to rub at the stump of her right arm.

  ‘He didn’t lie to you in everything.’ She raised her head. ‘That’s why you believe. You can take evidence two ways. The Tower does have Witchbreed technology. The Hexenmeister – anyone who holds the title Hexenmeister – has a more-than-mortal memory. It’s stored in these devices. The Tower’s been adding to the knowledge held here for sixty generations.’

  Doug Clifford stared at the image in the tank. ‘Data storage and retrieval.’

  ‘The Witchbreed Empire –’ She made a grimace, her distaste plain. ‘Now they’re gone, these devices can’t be replaced.’

  She slid down, stood with that swordfighter’s balance; and her head came up, and for a moment it was Ruric Orhlandis, the Crown’s Ruric, Melkathi’s Ruric, the Ruric I mourned as dead.

  ‘T’ans, this doesn’t change anything. The Tower is still the guard against the rise of another Golden Empire. Our hands aren’t clean. What of it? Whose are? All the Hexenmeisters have used every method in their power to keep us from becoming what the Golden Witchbreed became – what your people are. Forgive me, it’s true. We have information and secrecy and not much else.’ She smiled wryly. ‘But I knew that when I agreed to become Hexenmeister.’

  Clifford’s face was intent, his eyes fixed on that chiruzeth tank. Data storage and retrieval. Without looking at her, he said, ‘If you were to have contact with a pro-isolationist group, one that has some influence with Earth governments and multicorporates –’

  ‘No.’ Both their heads turned towards me. I took a breath. ‘I need things explained. What are you telling me? That I was – what? – hypnotized, drugged into believing that memory-transfers are possible? And they’re not?’

  The Orhlandis woman said, ‘The last Hexenmeister was very practised in making people believe they hadn’t spoken with the Tower. Or that he had powers that do not exist. Christie, he couldn’t have known it would damage an offworlder as it’s damaged you.’

  Too stunned to think, I could only stare at her.

  ‘It wasn’t a right thing to do.’ She sighed. Then a hardness came into her face. ‘But the Tower has only secrecy to protect it and the Tower must survive.’

  I walked forward and put both hands on the rim of the chiruzeth tank. No more than a data-link, a holotank? Remembering how I lay down in one of these slick coffins, and the stab of a mental violation.

  Shattered into a million pieces, a million lives –

  The air cool, the light a frozen instant of lightning; and cool blue-grey walls … and that all but imperceptible hum. A sudden image came to me of the white hall in Rakviri telestre, the intent faces of Barris and Jaharien, the iron bowl eaten away in energy-change to chiruzeth. The effect that just one relic of the Empire could have. Can I have built up a whole delusional system, just based on alien data-storage archives?

  I swung round and faced them, the human male and the Orthean woman.

  ‘What right – how the fuck did he dare do that to me!’

  As I spoke, I knew: There is still a doubt. That younger Christie who first came here, she would have voiced her doubts. I looked at Douggie’s bland expression, and the ageing features of the alien woman, and I kept silent. Desperate to get out of the Tower and think this through alone.

  ‘Does that satisfy you now?’ Ruric asked Clifford. ‘Questions later. I’ll take you back now. I must talk to the PanOceania offworlders. T’ans, you see the risks I take. I can’t prevent you spreading this knowledge on the Coast and in the Hundred Thousand. I can only ask you to wait.’

  ‘That would seem to be acceptable.’

  Looking at Clifford as he spoke, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Which means that I know exactly what he thought.

  All children who go to the sea pick up pebbles, shining black and red and white from the water. Nothing left later but a handful of dry and salt-encrusted stones. Pyrites; fool’s gold.

  Memories hard and solid and bright: should they be colourless now?

  ‘Explain the languages,’ I said, as we left the desiccated Tower gardens and walked down between Order House domes. ‘That’s just one of the things I know. Explain how I can be fluent in most of the languages of the Coast and the Hundred Thousand.’

  Clifford shrugged off the challenge. ‘Lynne, for all I know you’ve spent the last ten years studying Orthe. Don’t be angry – I’m saying what others will say. I have to keep an open mind until I’m presented with proof.’

  How could you …? Douggie!

  Real worlds and hard facts, they tip the balance. I nodded, let him walk on towards the Westgate. Cold bites deep to the bone, and fear is cold. Though Carrick’s Star radiates fiercely, and the hot Coast gales blow, and the dust is warm underfoot: such a chill …

  A six-fingered hand touched my arm. I looked down, saw a thin-faced male in a faded meshabi-robe. The nictitating membrane slid back from his eyes so far that a rim of white was visible round the green iris.

  ‘Who cut off your mane and hurt your eyes?’ His interest was childlike.

  ‘I’m not Orthean, shan’tai, I’m offworlder.’

  His head cocked sideways, like a bird’s. ‘You wear the mask of the Tower. How many masks do you wear?’

  Not now, I thought, and rubbed a hand across my bare face. At this precise moment I don’t need the inner city and its madmen.

  He added, ‘I used to have a name and that was a mask.’

  I shook his hand off, walked rapidly away. He called something unintelligible. Winding alleys put distance between us, and I made my way between the curving white walls of domes; and the heat of the sun at last made me slow and seek shelter. There was a glimpse of sandstone blocks between white domes, the wall of the inner city; and a massive low arch: Harbourgate.

  Some instinct said: In the mental state you’re in now, they’ll talk to you. All of those who are outsiders, and have no other world to go to. All of those who come here to heal themselves, before they go back and change this world. All those who will never leave, because for them there’s no worl
d at all …

  ‘Show me your hands.’

  A shadow fell across me. I glanced up, saw a woman on the low step of an Order House. Half a dozen Ortheans sprawled there. She had an accent I couldn’t place. A mane bleached to colourlessness, a skin like coal; wearing nothing but cords on which pierced stones were strung.

  ‘Show me your hands!’ she repeated. ‘They’re gloved with blood to the elbows.’

  She stepped down on to the dry earth. I said, ‘I can still defend myself –’

  ‘You are alone, but there’s a multitude with you. You think defeat, but victory is only a thought away. I can see you where you stand. Your robe is dirty and your eyes are veiled.’ Her dark face shone with a smile, too febrile for comfort. She stepped nearer. ‘Let me be your mirror. I show you –’

  ‘What you see.’

  ‘What you think I see.’

  Adrenalin hammered. No control in her. The sun’s heat made me dizzy.

  Do I mirror you? I know how it feels to be you, how you carry yourself; fear raising hackles of mane down your spine, eyes veiled against the white sunlight.

  When she spoke again, her voice was soft. ‘Why did you come here?’

  Was my smile as crazy as hers? I grinned, reckless. ‘I came here because I thought I might find – I was about to say, find asylum. Now I think about that, it’s been one, the inner city, and it is one, in quite a different sense!’

  The corded pebbles slid against her dark skin. She was a head shorter than I, and that made her look up, and veil her eyes against the light. A gust of warm air caught her mane and wrapped it across the sharp ribs: white on black.

  She said, ‘Your hands are empty and your eyes weep blood.’

  ‘Shan’tai, I don’t think you any more reliable than – than any other mirror.’

  After a long moment, she turned away. I walked away from the Order House steps, crossing the open ground between there and the city wall. Thinking, Will I become like her?

  After Max died, I found that I could believe exactly what I wanted to believe – until the distance between that and the truth widened so far that I fell down the gap, ended up on the floor of hell in a hospital bed. Could I have built up a delusional system here? Alien interference an irritant grit: the Tower-myth the pearl that builds up around it? Surely not –