Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  ‘Get them under cover!’ Ruric gestured violently; turned to look at the jath-rai, then back at the wounded littering the quay. The small boat rocked, was abruptly a yard out from the quay steps and raising its own sails; I saw a spray of water catch the sun. Ruric groaned under her breath; again shouted: ‘Under cover, get back! Get them out of sight!’ Her voice was drowned out by a sharp crack!

  She turned abruptly, seized my arm and pulled it across her thin shoulders, said, ‘Hold on!’ and began to half carry me across the quay, towards the shelter of the abandoned companion-houses there. Each step jolted agony through my leg; my vision blurred with tears, the low-roofed buildings becoming only a dazzle; but I got a grip on her shoulder tight enough to make her wince, braced against her: walked; and then as the noise rose to a deafening level, began to half limp, half run, in red agony; and collapse in shadow; she against me; and look out from under a doorway at the quay and the river and the hull of an F90 shuttle as it roared downriver, a bare five hundred feet above.

  ‘– Mendez!’ But I couldn’t even hear myself over the rattle of explosive fire; a thunder that went on and on.

  We lay on the earthen floor just inside the low building. That earth vibrated now, a shaking roar that I thought must be the dockside collapsing into the river; the walls shivered. A hollow boom! echoed up from downriver.

  ‘Wait. Don’t move.’ Ruric knelt up, got to her feet; and shaded her eyes with her single hand, staring out across the water. She stood in the doorway for a moment, then ducked outside. Smoke drifted acridly across what I could see of the dock, there were moans and screams; I glimpsed her and another male and an Earthspeaker, each dragged a stretcher towards the shelter of the dockside telestre-houses.

  As if there were all the time in the world, I thought, Cory is firing on the Desert Coast ships, I caught hold of the door-jamb, levered myself up on my good leg; and smoke made me cough, eyes streaming. Men and women were dragging themselves away from the quayside in panic; those who were still must be too hurt to move; I caught my breath and then realized, I can hear them screaming; the firing’s stopped.

  Smoke began to thin, from black to sepia to gold. Sun shone down on the quay, on the bricks and timber – I never heard that hit; what did they get? – of a telestre-house fired on by the jath-rai. One jath-rai still remained. It drifted, fifty yards away; the river current beginning to turn it around.

  Sharp explosions still crackled in the distance, and there were flashes like summer lightning, and I slid down to the earth, resting my back against the doorframe. It was involuntary. I wanted to move, wanted to get out on to the quay, no matter the ship or the firing; but it wasn’t pain that swept through me, it was a weakness as if every tendon had been cut. And then pain made tears run, and I could do nothing but sit and blink and breathe in rasping coughs; and the hard jamb of the door cut into my spine.

  A minute later and a shadow fell across my closed eyes: ‘Haven’t you sense enough to be inside?’

  I opened my eyes and saw sun on the water and rolling smoke, and Ruric Orhlandis. The dark Orthean woman stumbled through the doorway. She glanced back over her shoulder, winced as a volley of explosions rocked the air; and knelt down, her hand and arm tight across her lower ribs. Her shirt, torn down the back, exposed the wiry roots of her black mane; and as she raised her head the alien musculature shifted under her skin.

  ‘Christie, for Her sake, get in –’

  My arms gave under me as I tried to push myself up; I could only lean back against the inner doorjamb. She stayed for a moment, ribs heaving, and then half fell beside me; and the membrane drew back from her eyes, a white line appearing round the yellow iris.

  ‘Hurt – you’re hurt?’

  She looked dazedly at the interior of this empty companion-house. A tiny white-walled room, with couch-chairs and tables overturned in the panic of flight; dust and sunlight drifting in through the slot-windows.

  ‘Might as well – stay here.’ She shook her head as if to clear it. ‘Sunmother! Something hit me here –’ The arm across her ribs tightened.

  ‘Are you bleeding?’

  ‘No; bruised, I think.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘It’s tight; that’s all.’

  Pain and weakness went together now: again, it felt as if they balanced. Clear-headed and feverish, all at the same time. I rubbed my hands down my coveralls, then wiped my mouth; tasted grit. Cold wind blew in off the river.

  ‘How bad is it?’ I met her gaze. Can’t get your breath and it’s a chest-wound – And I was suddenly cold, mind clear; looking at that narrow face, and the pain. ‘Is it bad enough to be a broken bone?’

  ‘Could be.’ She twisted, sitting down next to me; let out a grunt of pain; and then coughed and cut it off halfway.

  Outside, concussion split the air; somewhere close there was a crash. Someone screamed. Thunder rolled: pounded at the walls of the tiny room. Has to be a shuttle coming in low, I thought; but black smoke swirled across the quay, and I could see nothing. And she sat with her back to the wall, this alien woman; head thrown back and gasping; and the sun faintly shone copper on her black mane and on her shoulders, on the six-fingered hand that clenched on her high-arched ribs. Humanoid is not human I thought coldly, and then but a rib can pierce a lung, all the same.

  ‘What’s happening out there?’

  She caught her breath, that rasped in her throat. ‘I can’t – there’s no telling; you can’t see. I saw s ’aranthi ships over Westhill. I think they were firing.’ And she looked at me, and shook her head. ‘We’re pinned down here.’

  She makes too much sense to be injured. I looked up past the edge of the door, and saw the billows of smoke clearing again, and the blue sky beyond, and a glint of light that must be another shuttle.

  ‘You said – said they were coming this way. From Westhill and down that way,’ I said.

  Her head moved slightly: a nod of agreement. Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘An hour. Maybe less. Then they’ll be here.’

  And what happens to us then – no, you don’t think about that. And I wondered if, in a few minutes, I could seriously think of how we might move (and go where?); but for the minute just to sit and not cry out with the pain was effort. I reached over, and could only brush my hand against her shoulder.

  ‘We can –’

  Her breath caught in her throat again, and her head went back; corded neck stretched in pain. Her arm fell to her side. Abruptly she bent forward, coughing. The harsh sound cut off midway, became liquid; and she put her hand up to her mouth, brought it away black, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

  ‘Jesus Christy no –’

  The light from the window shone down on her. A dark woman, cropped mane falling over her forehead; and the lines of pain and age cut deep in her face. Her white shirt was caked with dust. That six-fingered hand pressed on the stone floor, leaving a dark smear; and then she caught hold of my hand in a painful grip. Her eyes opened, amazed; looking at me.

  ‘Where were you hit? Show me.’ I kept her hand tight in mine, and she pulled it free; dragged the shirt away from her lower ribs on her left side. The flesh had a pulpy look to it. She let the cloth fall.

  ‘Don’t move; don’t talk. Stay still.’

  What I said was drowned in the roar of falling masonry. Something hit the flat roof above us with a crash. Light flashed on the far wall of the companion-house room: leakage of laser-fire; and I blinked back after-images.

  Between gasps, the Orthean woman said, ‘Tethmet was right. He said I shouldn’t – leave the Tower. Right.’ And she made a grimace, trying to smile.

  ‘Don’t talk, you’ll aggravate it. Stay still.’

  She nodded, once, and rested her head back against the wall. I watched her chest rise and fall. Tight, jagged movements. Wondered what it was that hit her and then thought, It wouldn’t help to know. Christ, don’t let it be bad; don’t let it be what it looks like!

  Long minutes passed. My mouth was dry with thirst and fear; an
d it was a fight not to slip into unconsciousness. The noise didn’t abate. But in this tiny, pale room, it passed unnoticed. She opened her eyes, frowning slightly. What can I do? Nothing but keep her still. If she’s got a pierced lung, if she has, then the medics will have to get here fast –

  She bent forward, spasms wracking at her; and I dragged myself a few inches closer and, half out from the pain, held her shoulders while she coughed, while her head came back; and blood haemorrhaged, ran down her mouth and neck and soaked her shirt.

  ‘– Christie?’

  It was a minute before I realized where I was: still leaning against her and against the wall, and acrid smoke seeped into the small room and stung my eyes. My leg and hip were liquid fire. I wiped sweat off my face and couldn’t feel it on my hand.

  ‘Christie?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Stupid,’ she said. ‘This is – a stupid thing to happen – ah!’

  ‘Don’t,’ I begged, and felt tears on my cheeks; cursed weakness. She gasped, dragging air into her lungs, and it was a wet, frothy sound. I managed to get my arm all the way round her narrow shoulders, supporting her against my left side; her body was heavy, fever-hot, and she coughed again, thickly.

  ‘Don’t move. Oh, Jesus, why didn’t you get out on the first boat? Of all the fucking stupid things to do –’

  Glass imploded, scattering the floor. I flinched, and then cried out at the pain of the movement. Either the firing was further off or I couldn’t hear properly; one loud crack! was followed by an almost-silence.

  The smoke thinned, and the light of the sun came in through the shattered window, and made an oblong on the stone floor. It shone on her legs, stretched out before her. I grabbed hold of the doorjamb and pulled myself forward, so that I could see through the door; and Ruric slumped against me. I leaned back. The firing started again, closer now.

  Coughing shook her; deep spasms, that brought up blood. I wiped at her mouth with my hand.

  And this is your Tathcaer, your city, how could you leave it? Oh, Jesus, why didn’t you go?

  Gently, I leaned her head back against my shoulder. Her weight on my uninjured leg was almost a dead weight. I gripped her shoulders, leaning her back a little on me. Her mane was rough against my arm. I saw her hand in her lap clench, those slender claw-nailed fingers digging into her palm; felt how she tried to hold back the coughing, hold herself still. This cannot be happening, I don’t believe it can happen like this.

  ‘Stay still,’ I whispered. Her skin felt hot, and her pulse hammered.

  The light was cruel now, showing her age; showing the skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. Her head moved the smallest fraction. She opened her eyes; and the skin round them crinkled, her mouth moved – the faintest echo of that smile I saw once, in this city, eight years ago.

  I said, ‘They’ll get to us. Don’t move; you won’t do any more damage. They’ll get to us soon.’

  So quiet that I hardly heard her over the noise of the firing outside, she said,’ It doesn’t matter if I talk. I want to say some things.’ And then, all on out-breaths, and with a ghost of asperity: ‘I do know – about lung wounds.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Now the wind off the river brought the stench of dead weed and garbage, and cordite; and raised chills on my skin. It came to me as a simultaneous perception: all the years that I have spent away from Orthe, all the time between then and now – and all that happened to me then, here in this city: how in the Citadel Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe sent me out to the telestres in this woman’s company, and all the long journeying that brought us at last to a room in the Citadel again, she going into her exile and I into mine. It’s no use to regret. And she is not amari Ruric Orhlandis now, not T’An Commander and T’An Melkathi; she is Ruric Hexenmeister – ah, but still: how could she stay away?

  ‘Get me back to the Tower –’ Her breath caught.

  ‘They – can they heal you there?’

  ‘Take me there anyway.’ She coughed, and it was tight; coughed until she bent forward and I held her, and she brought up dark blood, and spat, and coughed again; fighting for air.

  She leaned back against me. ‘Do you know – in the Citadel? When you came there?’ It was obvious she meant her exile. ‘I would – ask. Would have asked you to come with me. I don’t know why I didn’t.’

  Eight years ago it wouldn’t have been true, I thought, but now it is. And I said, ‘If you’d asked, I would have gone.’

  She did smile at that, yellow eyes wide and with that intrinsic glow they have in shadow; and the sunlight from the window fell on her hand and hip, and outside the whine of CAS weapons was louder. The minutes passed. She gasped for breath.

  My knee and leg and hip throbbed, pain keeping me conscious. Everything in that tiny room stood out with preternatural clarity: the overturned tables, the dust on the floor, the splintered glass. Dust billowed along the quay outside. The sun grew hot. Noise was a constant, no longer noticed. I am thirty-eight years old, she is older; I am holding her here in this empty room and I cannot move.

  A few minutes later she coughed again, and this time she didn’t stop. I held her while she shook with it, crying out with pain; and my hands were wet with her haemorrhaged blood. Her weight rested against me, heavy and warm; and her black mane was rough against my cheek; her spasms jolted me so that I had to bite on my lower lip to keep from screaming.

  A little after noon, her breathing became shallow, and then stertorous. She rested against me, this Orthean woman with satin-black skin and mane; head resting in the hollow of my shoulder, and all my clothing soaked with her blood. The lungs fill and they drown, drown in their own blood; human is not humanoid – but sometimes it is. I looked down at that narrow face.

  I held her in my arms until she grew cold.

  38

  Past-Memory

  ‘One more here!’

  I managed to focus against the light blazing in at the doorway. The voice added something unintelligible, shouting to be heard over the thunder of a shuttle’s flight; and then a young Orthean in a priest’s robe knelt beside me.

  ‘Just wait, t’an, we’ll have you safe soon.’

  Pain and fever and memory hold me: looking down at my lap, I can see that the patch of sunlight has moved only inches, shines on my human hands that are black with blood and not more than an hour’s passed, I thought, why weren’t you here an hour ago –?

  A deep roar sounded, split into distinct successive explosions. The young male’s head came up and he flinched, pale eyes veiled; that face narrow at the jaw and wide at the forehead, quick with life. Past him, I saw the river. Light shattered off the water, off the metal sails of a jath-rai; and suddenly a great plume of water shot up beside the ship, a shadow darkened the air and passed overhead – and then the roar of the shuttle’s passing: I put my hands over my ears.

  ‘– wait, and we’ll get you out with the others!’

  I found myself alone. I sat propped against the wall, legs out before me; the pain made me gasp with every breath.

  An hour is long enough to come to a decision, I thought. And as long as I’ve decided, I’m okay; I can do it. If it’s cowardly … that doesn’t matter now.

  Deliberately and with effort I moved my hand, getting the fingers round her long-boned, cold wrist; and locked them, and thought, They won’t separate us and began to laugh – caught my breath in pain: laughed so that I shook, and the tears ran down my face.

  ‘Here. Lift her. Help me.’ The young male Earthspeaker ducked into the doorway, followed by an older male; and then as he bent over me, hesitated, and then reached down to pry loose my fingers.

  ‘You don’t leave her –’

  He put a dark-skinned hand on her throat, where she lay against me still with her head thrown back. Momentarily irritation gripped me: do you think I don’t know how to find breath or a heart-beat?

  ‘She’s dead, we can’t help her.’

  I tightened my grip on her wri
st. Tears ran down my face and in blind panic I repeated, ‘You don’t leave her here! She comes with me!’

  ‘T’An, she’s dead –’ He turned, as the older male whispered something. They stood up, talking in the doorway; and it was irresistibly funny, I thought, To have to drag a lump of dead, cold meat along with me and the pain in my smashed knee flared so that I couldn’t help but claw at it; and then scream again when that hurt. I bent double. The body slid down on to the stone floor beside me.

  The sun was warm on her face, that sharp high-boned face wiped clean of haemorrhaged blood, but when I put my hand on her, her face was cold and soft. Her mouth hung a little open, and her eyes were closed. The lines in that fine-grained black skin made her seem old, and she will not be old, not now.

  I reached for her hand again, where it lay fallen on her breast, and held those long amber-nailed fingers, and again felt laughter tight in my lungs. I screwed my eyes up against the light through the doorway, looking at the distant daystarred sky. A good joke. When she should be buried now – and a sharp crack! shook the companion-house.

  ‘Bring it, we haven’t time to argue,’ the Earthspeaker said urgently, ‘we can’t leave this one even if it is s’aranthi; get to the boat!’

  He caught my arm and pulled it across his shoulders and I came up on to one leg that twisted and wouldn’t hold me. The other male gripped her body under the arms and dragged it out on to the quayside and even with the pain lancing through me, I saw her heels jolt comically over the stones, and laughed on a soundless breath, and retched: part from the pain, and part from the realization, God, that there should be a use even for the dead.

  The flat-hulled ferry dipped sickeningly. A rush of spray soaked me, brought me to a semi-conscious state. White wake trailed downriver, a solid wall of sound struck me; and the person next to me screamed, and thrashed, and a hand caught me across the face. I blinked away tears. High overhead the F90 swung into a curve. The sun slid like a silver bead down the length of its hull.