Belief was fading under fresh doubts. Danarion sighed inwardly. “I think so. My own light will be sufficient.” He walked in under the overhang and paused, and a dull yellow light began to trickle from Chilka’s outstretched hands. Nenan said nothing more.
The tunnel was indeed not long, but the weight of stone and thick darkness held feebly at bay and the uneven, chip-strewn floor made it seem much longer. When they emerged, Danarion stood on a narrow lip of rock that reminded him suddenly and forcefully of Ghakazian’s great rock Gate and was momentarily stunned. The Mountain of Mourning was so close on his right that it could almost be touched, a huge, rearing bulk of barrenness that permanently shut out the sun. Strange gray thistles grew haphazardly on its steep sandy slope. Over it all lay a palpable, frowning hostility.
Nenan shuddered. “I do not fear the dead,” he said in a high voice. “It is the other, the presence, the unknown thing that haunts the Mountain. The two-minds cannot bear it either, but their need of slaves overcomes their fear.”
Danarion took a closer look at the Mountain, trying to ignore the clamor of retreat, pain, and dread that swirled in Chilka’s mind as the memories woke. The visible cliffs were not unbroken. Buttresses, slanting ledges, smooth slides that slowed to flat places became clearer the longer he looked. It was difficult to make out any detail without direct sunlight, but it seemed to Danarion that irregularities in the rock were in fact patches of faint white or jumbles of gray sticks. Mutely he enquired of Chilka, and past the drumming of fear and the birth of courage the answer came. The dead—brought to the Mountain, wrapped in white linen, and carried by those who afterward ate a small farewell meal beside the bier and then crept away, leaving the body on the slopes for the few wild animals that might prey upon the rotting flesh. It was a pitiful, crude parody of a Sholan death, Danarion reflected. The white garment, the Hall of Waiting filled with happy well-wishers, the Messenger waiting beyond the Gate reduced to this unthinkable deforming. Why here? he wondered. Why here? And Chilka’s heart beat faster.
“Chilka was taken by that route,” Danarion said to Nenan, pointing down the slope. “It comes out at the foot of the plain opposite the city. But I want to end up farther to the south. We must go over the Mountain.”
Nenan shook his head and backed away. “No one climbs the Mountain,” he whispered. “Funerals come up from the other side, or so I believe, early in the morning so that they may be off the Mountain by dark. We would still be there when sunset comes! I will not go!”
“Very well,” Danarion said gently. “Go home if you must. The dead cannot hurt you and would not wish to even if they could, and if there is something else up there other than fear itself, Nenan, it cannot hurt me. Don’t you understand? Nothing on Shol can destroy me, and if you are with me, you are safe.”
Nenan hesitated, torn between fear and pride. “My father would have been afraid, but he would have gone with you, I know, if he were here,” he said finally. “Very well. I have nothing in this whole world to lose.” Danarion touched him briefly on the arm, a gesture of approval and support, but Nenan shrugged away. They stepped from the shelter of the tunnel mouth onto the cold sand and turned their faces to the Mountain.
By early afternoon they were struggling up the barren slopes. By sunset they were standing on the summit, a flat, slightly rolling height bare of all but black and gray rock and an evening wind with a night chill in it. Ahead lay the plain, green and tree-dotted, and beyond that the ocean, lying pink and blue-gray at the horizon. To the left was the city of Ishban, hidden by evening haze and the miles between.
Nenan shivered. “It’s cold up here,” he said, “and I am hungry and very thirsty. I came after you with nothing.”
“I have no food or water either.” Danarion drew him down into a little dip in the rock. “Tomorrow I will find us something on the plain.”
“The plain is full of two-minds who tend fruit trees and vines. They say it is warmer down there by night, and cooler by day.”
Danarion knew that Nenan’s calm voice hid a terror that was growing as the sun hovered, a half-disc on the ocean, and he settled closer to the young man. “Would you like me to put you to sleep like Lallin?” he asked gently.
Nenan thought, then shook his head with weak defiance. “I will not run, not now. Tell me about where you come from. Fill the legends for me.”
So as night fell and the stars appeared, so close in the black are above them that Danarion felt he could reach out and caress them, he told Nenan of Danar, the palace of the immortals, the mighty Gate. He spoke of Shol in the days when it was new and unsullied, of Sholia, of Shaban with its steep streets, its dreamweavers, its many bells. Nenan listened, entranced, now and then breathing, “I do not believe! I cannot!” in a voice thick with thrall. Once he asked, “Do you mean that all the worlds had Gates? That Shol had a Gate through which the people could go to the stars?”
“Not to the stars,” Danarion replied. “Only to Shon and Sumel, but they were destroyed when Shol’s other sun exploded.”
“And if you find this Gate, will you open it once more so that the people can go through?”
Sadly Danarion realized that Nenan had not fully understood, that he had been asked to comprehend too much. “The people can no longer go through,” he said. “I want to find it only so that I may know it is safely shut forever.”
“If I had been a god, I would not have let it happen, any of it!” Nenan said bitterly. “We mortal people have done nothing, we were innocent. Why should we suffer the evils of beings we know nothing of except in stories?”
“Everything that was made suffered,” Danarion answered heavily, “because nothing was made to stand alone except the Lawmaker himself. I have told you enough, my son. Go to sleep now.” Nenan muttered a protest, but Danarion touched his eyes, and he exhaled and fell into a deep slumber.
Danarion sat looking into the darkness. Chilka’s body demanded sleep also, but Danarion was afraid to relax for fear he should sink into the well of not-knowing that had overtaken him the night before, so he ignored the exhausted flesh encasing him. For a while he studied the stars, and gradually he became aware that he was not alone. A wind that was not moving air sighed on the Mountain, full of the far voices of invisible hosts drifting to and fro across the summit, from nowhere to nowhere and back again.
The wailings of the essences did not frighten him. He listened to them absently, random thoughts passing through his mind, until he was suddenly aware of someone standing before him. The impression was so strong that he glanced sharply up expecting to see a bulk that would blot out the stars, but Chilka’s eyes and his own inner sight showed him nothing. Only his instinct told him that someone stood near his feet, and a terrible pleading came to him, washing over him as he sat tensed and listening. Come please, please … The urge to rise, to follow nothing to some unknown place was very strong, but he resisted it. “I cannot help the dead,” he whispered. “There is nothing I can do. I seek the Gate and nothing more.” For the rest of the night the presence remained beseeching, mute, and cold, but when the sky began to lighten, Danarion felt it leave him. Was it Chilka he wondered suddenly, looking at his body with longing? All at once he was possessive of the flesh surrounding him, and he hugged himself tightly as Nenan sat up, shivering.
“The sun’s rising,” he murmured, “and I am even hungrier than before. I would give anything for Lallin’s hot stew.” He gazed about him, half-astonished that he should still be on the Mountain yet unharmed.
Danarion rose abruptly. “It is not far now to the fruit trees,” he said. “We must go.”
But Nenan had grasped his arm and pointed. “Look! A funeral procession coming this way! If we run, we will be seen, but if we stay, they will walk right up to us!”
The silent party was almost up to them, toiling without sound, heads bowed, not in grief, Danarion thought, but against the effort of the stiff climb. The man who led was dressed in a long red sleeveless garment emblazoned down the
front with two suns, a yellow one overlapping a black. Behind him came two men bowed under the weight of a huge metal sun which glinted in the early, fresh light. A family followed them: a man in late middle age, gray-bearded and with a stately carriage; a woman heavily veiled; a young man, very fair and slightly older than Nenan, by the look of him; and two little boys. Bringing up the rear were a half-dozen servants, each carrying a load of wood and jars on his back. Nenan was panting with fear and clutching Danarion’s arm. “If they see us, they’ll kill us! This is no ordinary funeral.” Danarion glanced at the sun, now striking full into his eyes. It was well clear of the horizon and climbing steadily. “Take my hand,” he said to Nenan, “and do not move or speak. We will try to be thin, you and I, to change color, to merge with the sun.” Danarion gazed straight ahead, feeding himself into the young man through his tight fingers, willing Shol’s sun to enter and smooth them, camouflage them.
The procession halted within a stone’s throw of Danarion. There was still no sound, as though the people were sleepwalkers. The long-robed man pointed, and the servants began to pile the wood and douse it with oil, their movements fluid and unconscious. The sun-disc was laid on a rock a little distance from the pyre. Then they all stood in a stillness so profound that Danarion wondered if they were drugged or tranced. Some minutes had gone by when the first man to appear made a small gesture with his hand, and the father of the family went to the pile of oily, glistening wood and laid himself upon it. The eldest son stretched himself face down on the copper sun. More puzzled than ever, Danarion watched, unease growing in him. There was no corpse to burn. Was this an execution of some kind? He dared not retreat into Chilka’s brain, for Shol’s sun had answered his request only grudgingly, as though it had been barely heard, and he was forced to concentrate on the link with it.
The robed man produced a light and calmly, almost indifferently, touched it to the wood. The man on the pyre did not struggle or cry out as the flames, the only vibrant, speaking things on the windy Mountain, leaped and crackled. For an age they all watched, their faces blank, and Danarion held to Nenan tightly for fear he should cry out. The form on the disc did not stir but lay supine and loose with eyes closed. Although he did not know at what point the old man died, Danarion, watching through the wind-ripped, swirling smoke, thought he saw pale wings unfolding like a crumpled petal opening to the light. The flesh on the pyre began to crack and snap, and Nenan grunted, the small sound lost in the larger noises of the fire.
Then Danarion’s grip on the sun faltered for a moment, for the young man lying on the disc had begun to struggle. His arms and legs flailed. His eyes opened suddenly and widened in horror. “No!” he screamed. “Please, no! Not to me!” Though nothing visible held him, he seemed to be pinned between the shoulder blades. The others watched in complete passivity as sweat drenched him, blossoming on his white tunic and running down his cheeks.
As abruptly as he had begun to scream he fell silent. The robed man gestured again, and servants moved to lift the young man and set him on his feet. As he stood and turned Danarion saw that his blue eyes were clear, calm, and brilliant, glittering with new life and vigor. The procession reformed, turned from the fire, and filed away.
Trembling, Danarion loosed his hold on the sun and sank to the ground, finding Chilka’s own body bathed in sweat. Nenan lurched forward with a groan and vomited. “No one-mind has ever seen it,” he croaked as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Such insanity, such vicious, incomprehensible rottenness. The rumors say that only the most highly placed two-minds do this. For the rest it is different.”
Danarion did not reply. He took the boy’s arm, hauling himself up on legs that seemed too weak to bear him, and they started down the Mountain. Not incomprehensible, Danarion thought, after searching Chilka and finding no memories to connect to what he had just seen. The winged Ghakans must have found it easier to move from an old body to a young before death, and it would not serve them to go into the body of a young child. Better the young men and girls who had reached their first maturity.
“Tell me,” Nenan said shakily, “is the sun a living, thinking being, or am I as mad as the two-minds? I felt something, there beside you.”
“The suns are the Worldmaker’s children,” Danarion replied, glad that Nenan was trying to occupy his mind with something other than the horror he had just witnessed. “They are immensely powerful but shy and obedient to us, their kin.”
Nenan managed a short laugh. “They always told us that the two suns on Shol’s flag meant night and day, but I know better now.”
22
Before long they were walking on lush grass, soft and yielding under feet that had felt nothing but rock for so long. Trees closed over their heads, clad in a summer richness, and Dananion finally sat with his back against a wide trunk as Nenan went in search of fruit, bringing back enough to stave off his hunger. He sucked at the juice thirstily while Danarion ate swiftly and without tasting, ransacking Chilka’s memories. The trees were not part of a forest but had been planted in orderly precision, covering several square miles. Between them and the city was more rock and gray, hard-packed sand, sliced by a road along which the privileged might ride to enjoy shade and fruit on hot summer afternoons.
That road passed a place he wanted very much to see, for he was oriented at last. Somewhere between here and Ishban, in the side of the Mountain, lay Sholia’s palace and the Hall of Waiting. If he walked straight on through the trees, the ocean would be there, lying at the foot of the cliff that had swept unbroken by all save the steep bay upon which Shaban had been built.
Nenan squinted to where the sunlight filtered down through green leaves. “Greetings, sun,” he said half to himself. “You’re beautiful.”
Danarion came to himself with a start and smiled. “It is time to be moving,” he said. “We must walk along the road now.”
“I think we should wait for night,” Nenan said doubtfully. “The road is very exposed. What do you plan to do when you reach Ishban, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” Danarion replied carefully. “I will follow whatever opportunity presents itself. First I must get into the House.”
Nenan’s eyebrows rose. “In that case, by all means let us go. We are sure to be arrested on the road.”
Danarion smiled at the cheerful sarcasm. “I want to see what I can in daylight,” he said, rising, “if you have guzzled enough fruit, Nenan.”
They left the shade and passed under the trees, walking steadily to where a line of bright sunlight marked the edge of the grove. On their right the ocean could be heard, a pleasant susurration of low sound which mingled with the cries of sea birds. “My ancestors were fishermen,” Nenan said suddenly, “yet I have never so much as placed a foot in the ocean, and there are no boats in Ishban. The two-minds fear everything, even the sea.”
“They fear Shaban, under the sea,” Danarion responded, and Nenan shot him a dark, respectful look and was silent.
They came to the end of the trees and stepped out into the full glare of Shol’s summer noon. Nenan shaded his eyes and looked down the road, but Danarion, seeing the towers of Ishban shimmering white-gray in the sea haze, was afflicted with sudden awe. For the first time since he had stood with Janthis and watched a distrait and almost unrecognizable Sholia close the Gate of this world, he retreated into full memory. He and Sholia were walking along the plain, talking together. One sun had set. The other, farther away, was slipping also, and Shaban was casting long streamers of pointed shadow over a calm vermilion ocean. The palace steps gleamed white as Sholia’s light, spilling from every high window, lay on them. Far down at the foot of the city the fishing boats with their bright little sails were crowded like eager puppies at the docks, and the Towers of Peace were being lit. Men walked behind the stone parapets. He could hear their voices and smell the brisk, briny evening wind that had sprung up to ruffle the long grass under his feet and set the many bells of the city chiming and tinkling. Sholia had ceased to
speak, and they walked in a contented quiet.
“Chilka?” Nenan was patting his arm. “Chilka!”
Danarion found himself sweating under a hot sun. The view before him now mingled briefly with the living memory, so that Shaban seemed to hang in the air where there was no longer rock to hold it, and Ishban was superimposed on the Towers of Peace. Then memory was gone, but the feeling of fracture remained. The city was too close, the cliff’s slope on his left too jagged, the plain impossibly foreshortened. He scanned it all slowly. Where the palace had been was jumbled rock. The city itself squatted safely on the plain, and where the plain had been sliced away in the cataclysm that had slipped Shaban into the sea, the city’s wall rose to a vast height and had no gates, for below it was a sickening drop and the grind of the surf. “The road is empty,” Nenan said, looking at him anxiously. “We cannot stand here all afternoon.”
Danarion nodded, and they set off along it, feeling exposed as the trees dropped away behind them. He wondered at the emptiness. Surely slaves should have been basketing fruit, horses and men coming and going, women in litters swaying toward the coolness of dewed grass and dappled shade.
They made good time, trudging rhythmically side by side. Danarion’s gaze played often on the walls of the cliff that rose on his left, but Nenan kept his head down and flinched at every bird’s cry. Then, an hour before sunset, the gulls began to stream inland, and Nenan blanched and came to a shaking halt.
“I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “I cannot bear them. I cannot go on until sunset.”
“Don’t you know that they are harmless,” Danarion snapped, dragging his thoughts from the coils of Chilka’s memory. “Your fear is of other winged beings, not birds. It is memory, Nenan, only the long memory of your people!”
Stargate Page 31