There were voices and footsteps and shapes swelled as they passed the bubble glass then faded away. I became calmer and more naturally sleepy as I experimented with the movement of the room, and, like a beam of light penetrating the darkness, it came to me where I was. This was a sleep-cell. It was not a prison or a place of punishment but one of the golden globes of painted wicker that nestled under the beams on the highest levels of Rintoul. Through the round door was a solid corridor, a courtyard or even a sun chamber and a water garden. Another thing was sure—for me the place was a prison. I doubted very much if the door would let me out. Before I had time to pursue this thought, the sobbing laughter I had heard in my dreams sounded again, very close.
It was a horrible despairing sound in a voice quite light and young; another person, another prisoner, lay in another sleep-cell close to my own, so close that I could hear the broken words and pleading.
“Let me out . . . let me see you. I am the only one, they have need of me, my teacher has need of me. It has been so long. There are fifty fixed stars in the constellation of the Loom, I could name them all, but I have forgotten—they have been stolen from me. . . .”
There followed a dreadful sobbing. “Blue . . . the eyes were blue . . . it made no secret . . . I have told, and I will tell again if only you will not leave me in this awful place . . .”
I sat up, trembling, on my shelf.
“There is a cave above Stone Brook . . . please let me out, let me see your faces, let me die. Send me back to the north. The blessing has all left me. Oh my dear Teacher, the power has waned, and I have lost the blue barge and the mountain Five with the devil will be utterly destroyed. Three comets . . . this is a three-comet year . . .”
I braced myself against the wall, although it rocked crazily, and shouted with all my might: “GORDO BEETHAN!”
There was an absolute silence, and I shouted again. “Gordo Beethan!”
The voice came again, so low I could hardly hear it. “Who calls me?”
“Dorn Brinroyan. I am in the next sleep-cell.”
“You are dead. You are a ghost come to mock me, for I have been kept so long, and I have betrayed you all.”
“I am alive, Gordo, and so are we all. The blue barge is safe.”
“Dorn, Dorn Brinroyan . . . is it you?”
“Truly Gordo. Have courage.”
“Dorn, what is this place, this dreadful swinging basket room?”
“It is what they call a sleep-cell. The grandees use it when they cannot sleep.”
“But where? In what place?”
“In Rintoul, of course.”
“RINTOUL!” There was a pause, and I heard muttering and thought he had lost his wits again.
“Gordo?”
“I was taken before the New Year, returning from the east to Otolor, having delivered the Ulgan’s message.”
“Have you been . . . mistreated?”
“At first, a little. Then I was left here. It has been so long, Dorn. There is food put through the door, but I cannot eat much. I have lost my powers, perhaps forever. I sleep and dream and remember all that I told the questioners.”
“Please Gordo, you are not to blame.”
“The old one is kind, Dorn. All it does is ask and send me back again. I hate the blanket, I am wrapped in a blanket when they take me out of here, so that I cannot see. But no more beatings . . .”
A distant set of bells chimed, sweet and silvery.
“Gordo?”
“Quiet, they are coming!”
I lay quietly on my shelf, although my heart was pounding so hard I felt it must make the cell rock. I prayed to the North Wind; I prayed to Eenath; I called upon Odd-Eye to give me strength. I reasoned that they could not hurt me or make me mad as they had poor Gordo. I was protected by all that I knew, and I was given power by my duty. I must find Diver or at least where he was being held. I must find this out and return to my Family.
Then a shadow of yellow and gray appeared before the distorting glass of my door, almost destroying my courage. The round door opened and an ancient peered inside, smiling.
“Have you slept well, child?” My visitor was a grandee, I saw at once, and probably a male. I sat up a little.
“Come along, come along,” said the old one. “We’ll take a walk.” There was no sign of the blanket Gordo hated so much; I slithered across the curved floor and half fell out of the door into the corridor.
It was frightening enough without the blanket . . . indeed it may have been another “kindness” not to let Gordo see where he was perched. The walls of the corridor were glass and wide-meshed wickerwork; we seemed to be on a narrow strip of paving, high, high up, with the blue and white and golden gulfs of the city reaching down on every side. The ancient wore an elegant robe of yellow silk, with gray facing, and carried a wooden staff, set with milky pink jewels. Yet there was something old and dusty and food-stained about these clothes; the long hands gripping the staff were furry and tremulous; only filmed eyes glittering in its temples told of a mind still alert.
“Come along, little string!” I followed the wavering figure along the bright corridor; we passed two omor, in neat gray, effacing themselves in alcoves opposite the sleep-cells. I counted five sleep-cells; they looked every bit as strange outside as they did in, oval gold baskets with the glass doors like bulging eyes. They were strung irregularly on the beams of the skyhouse so that each could move freely; between them one could see daylight, the empty air, yet the winding of the corridor allowed each one a firm entrance. Could Diver possibly lie in one of the other three?
As we passed, I asked in an innocent voice, as loud as I dared, “Highness, where are we going?”
The ancient replied without turning. “Into the sun chamber, child.”
I was seized with a terrible frustration and began to have an inkling of Gordo’s plight. This was the time, surely, when I should run away, bang on the sleep-cells to see if Diver were there, climb bravely up or down, elude the omor and the ancient . . . but it was useless and I knew it. There was nowhere to run to; the omor would have me instantly or I would fall to my death. I could only follow as I was bidden.
The sun chamber was as spacious as the one I had seen already but made more homely, less grand, by the use of furled cane blinds and circular tan mats and dwarf redwood trees. It had been turned into something more like three rooms: in the first space we passed were three females, all in filmy vented robes, although they were middle-aged and past the time for carrying children. They were carding and spinning; I had never seen grandees at this work before, but they seemed to know it well enough.
“Time for honey water!” one cried in a shrill voice as we passed.
“He is busy!” said another.
“Playing games . . . playing games . . . playing games. . . .” said the third, in a mad bird voice. Then all three laughed aloud, and the ancient waggled his staff at them.
I examined the sun room carefully, still hoping for a way of escape but it offered even less hope than the corridor. There were two or three servants, tending to the flowers and making refreshments on a tall, wheeled piece of furniture, with racks and drawers and little colored paper sunshades to cover the trays of food and fruit. Another omor, this time in pale gray, and another still, in striped gray and green, lounged in the second room of the sun chamber. The blinds were open and on a beautiful carpet a dwarf was practicing a dance before the omor. A young musician, half-hidden among vines, played for the rehearsal on a pouch-pipe, repeating the phrases as the dwarf practiced turns and somersaults. I felt a sudden chill spreading through my bones as we came to the next room, the most soothing place of all.
The chairs were of wicker, and there was a brazier of wood and metal, unlit for the summer and filled with dried red leaves. A big legged basket was overflowing with skeins and scrolls; in one corner stood a scribe’s tall desk, with paper on the platten and skeins half-woven on the hooks. The ancient pointed briskly and cheerfully to a heap of c
ushions and sank down himself in one of the wicker chairs. In the other sat a middle-aged male in a figured black and tan robe and handsome, curled, gold slippers. His hair was lit by the sun through the blind: a reddish brown, heavily streaked with gray. The face in repose was full of scholarly concentration, the long eyes light and thoughtful under the jutting brow.
“Here is our young guest,” said the Ancient, “and none the worse for a sleep.”
“Then we have something to say to one another,” said Tiath Avran Pentroy.
I was already seated on the cushions for I could not remain standing, from fear perhaps or surprise, or both. Yet where else could I have been? And how would the Great Elder look, at his ease among that family, which had been called “a tangle of the old threads.” But I could only stare at this strong-faced, richly dressed Moruian grandee and see, in my mind, the black barge on a winter’s night. I could hear, instead of the chink of glass dishes, the poison cups rolling about in the cabin of the old brown bird-boat. The twirlers drowned, or kicked out their lives on Wellin’s trees; the Gulgarvor fought and died, like engines of destruction; a world of cold and death and darkness lived at the behest of this Highness in the scholar’s robe and the curled slippers. And now he had his will—the devil from Hingstull was in his grasp.
The Great Elder gazed at me with a trace of curiosity. “Don’t stare, mountain child,” he said, “or the wind will blow away your eyelids.”
“It is afraid,” said Old Av Avran. “Perhaps it has lived too long on your land, dear sib.”
“No,” I whispered. “No . . . it is just that I have seen your Highness once before.”
“Where?”
“At Wellin, by night. After you had . . .” I was about to say “held assize” but I choked on the soft words. “After you had hung the twirlers.”
The ancient head of the family chuckled to himself. Not a ripple passed over the Great Elder’s face. “You were at Wellin?”
“We sailed past in a boat.”
“And the devil was with you?”
“All our Family was there.”
“Including this foreigner . . . the one called Garl.”
“Garl Brinroyan is our Luck.”
“Why? Is he deformed then? Or mad?”
“His hand was burned when he first came to us. And he has blue eyes, as you have seen, Highness.”
“I have not seen it,” said Tiath softly. “I think it would frighten me.”
I hung my head and let my fear and hopelessness wash over me in a great wave.
“One thing,” said Old Av, knitting his bony fingers together. “Does your devil speak another language?”
“Surely. But he has learned Moruian.”
“How many in its nest in the islands?” snapped Tiath.
“Three.”
“What is their purpose?”
“To find out what can live, what can breathe on Torin.”
“The constellation of the Loom,” murmured the Great Elder. “So far?”
“I do not know,” I mumbled. “Please, Highness . . . speak with Garl Brinroyan. He comes in peace.”
“Speak with the devil? I do not have it,” said Tiath.
“No devil and no air ship . . .” chuckled Old Av. “What do you think of that, little string?” I hung my head again, and the ancient laughed. “I don’t think it believes that . . .” he said. “Speak up child, what do you say? Has my sib got the devil or the air ship?”
“He has myself,” I said.
“How does this follow?” asked Old Av.
“I was taken, on the streets of Rintoul, at the same hour as our Luck, by the members of the same Gulgarvor, who admitted to serving the Great Elder.”
“Very reasonable,” said Tiath Gargan. “You are a clever child, and bold. Nevertheless I say I do not have your foreigner, and I begin to think I do not have you, either.”
“Lost! Lost! Lost!” said Old Av, cheerfully. “There are children lost every day, in the city.”
“Quiet!” snapped the Great Elder. “This business is almost complete.”
“Do you have Gordo Beethan?” I asked.
“I am not sure,” he replied absently, reading his scroll again. “Do you think I have him?”
I made no reply but asked again. “Do you have Tsorl-U-Tsorl?”
The Great Elder crumpled the scroll in his hand and turned his gaze right on me. He looked pale now, implacable, just as I had seen him at first.
“Remove it, Av,” he said. “Give it to Urnat for a short time.”
Old Av flicked his fingers twice, and the gray and green omor came through the flower racks from the next room of the sun chamber. She dragged me to my feet and half carried me back between the flowers, then laid me on the figured carpet in the sunshine. The dwarf Urnat had finished dancing and was drinking from a tall glass cup. I could not tell whether the dwarf was male or female or whether it had any sex; it was, as dwarfs go, very handsome, with a noble head. The name Urnat was woven in red on its small green tunic; I remembered that it had been born of a poor mountain Five on Gurth Mountain, not far from Hingstull. It said no word but took up a long cane that stood against a settle and began to thrash me, mainly on my legs, while the omor held me. I buried my face in the carpet and did not cry out although the pain became very bad. The sun chamber seemed to swim and fade when I came up for a breath. Then I felt a hard hand in my hair, and it was Urnat lifting my head.
“Enough!” it said, in a child’s voice. “Remove it!” The omor hoisted me into her brawny arms and carried me out past the female sibs, taking their honey cakes and fruit.
“Playing games . . .” piped the mad one.
The omor carried me back to the corridor and slotted me into a sleep-cell, a different one. I was now, I thought, on the other side of Gordo Beethan. I called out feebly, but the cell rocked and no voice replied and finally I slept.
So I remained, in the power of the Great Elder, so helpless, so far removed from any hope or comfort for my Family, for Diver or for myself that my situation made me light-headed, almost carefree. I had stepped right off the edge of the world this time and lived in some other place, without day or night, where the only change was the coming and going of the omor with my food tray. I examined my cell and found that it was indeed an apartment for a grandee. A sliding panel in the plaster wall revealed a washing place and a waste closet; there was scented washing oil and a stack of soft amith leaves for drying or wiping. Gordo Beethan had been removed from his cell, and now I was alone in the row of five sleep cells. I heard the others being put to their proper use by the members of Old Av’s family . . . the females came and sang and twittered in their cells until they slept and complained loud enough for me to hear of the fact that one cell was occupied.
The omor who attended me was always the same one, usually dressed in gray and green, who had carried me from the sun chamber. She seldom spoke, and I did not know her name, but she was not an unfriendly jailer. One day, with a solemn face, she asked, “Can you read?”
I told her that I could. She moved her thumb about on the cover of my plate of fish meal and inside, fastened in the lid, was a bright orange message skein. I was giddy with excitement and mistrust, but the skein was not what I expected . . . a message to me, Dorn, from outside. It was some kind of public message, of the kind purveyed at the Friends’ Round. The skein read:
A Reward of Cloth or Credits
Will be paid to any person who can tell truth and
relieve sorrow
By showing the way or any part of the way
To these two Bonded Kin, who are lost.
Garl Brinroyan, The Luck of Brin’s Five,
A tall one of strong appearance who comes from a
distant place and whose eyes are blue.
Dorn Brinroyan, eldest child of Brin’s Five,
A child thirteen years from its showing,
a male, whose eyes are hazel.
In the name of Our Great Mother, the North Wi
nd.
Approach the scribe who stands every day in the
Friends’ Round.
I could hardly eat for reading the skein again and again and wondering what the omor meant by showing it to me. I guessed that Vel Ragan was the scribe, and I felt that this was the sort of brave gesture my family might make. But was it a trap?
Then, when the omor returned, I decided when I looked at her broad face and its unaccustomed furtive look, that it was no trap. The creature had no guile. She was a vassal, serving in a favored place, the very skyhouse of the Great Elder, and she had been tempted by the reward.
“Well?” she whispered. “Answer me one thing—how can a mountain Five have cloth and credits for all comers?”
“We have it!”
“By magic? From your devil?”
“From the Bird Clan,” I replied. “For our Luck flies better than any bird, and we have won that great contest.”
She swiveled her eyes about, her head and shoulders almost blocking the round doorway. “Write something on the skein so they will know I speak truth.”
“No,” I said. “I have something better.”
“Be quick. Guard changes in a few moments.”
I drew out the Bird-Clan token from around my neck, bit off clumsily about half a finger length of the blue silk braid, and tied in the dangling threads one symbol of my name. I gave it to the omor and returned the orange message skein. Then she went off, and I refastened the braid of silk with trembling fingers; I was disturbed and frightened, for she had given me hope again. The rocking of the cell would scarcely make me sleep; I listened and waited for hours and then dreamed of orange message skeins strung all about the streets and gardens and sky-walks of Rintoul. I remained in this anxious state for two more days, then suddenly in Esder light, the omor and another vassal took me from the sleep-cell and led me away between them.
The Luck of Brin's Five Page 19