“Yes,” he whispered, thinking of the sufferings he had shared with Chilka. “I do.”
“I am scarred inside, hollowed out. It shows on my face, my hair. I am still tired, but not with the unbearable weight I carried for so long. It seems to be abating slowly. But all my power has gone. I cannot command the sun to restrain Ghakazian, and even if I could, what profit would there be? The Gate is closed. The Ghakans cannot return to their home. In the end I returned to the Hall of Waiting and found a great city and a ruling Lady, and a precarious balance worked out between two minds in one body. I found something else. We were not healers, were we, Danarion? Our mandate was to preserve, to maintain. Yet in place of the power I have lost, I have gained the ability to heal. I am careful not to make myself obvious, for I am afraid of Ghakazian. He still searches for me once in a while. But people come to me if they dare. They fear the Mountain.”
“Is it the rumor of you that they fear?”
She smiled through her unshed tears. “No. There is something else here, something pathetic and yet threatening, some great essence that cannot escape.”
“Tagar,” Danarion murmured. “He accused me of being an essence called Tagar.”
“Perhaps. I still have some small tricks left, like the one you played when the funeral came past you, which I used to hide you and your son from the soldiers who were seeking your body. But we needn’t discuss this now, for the news you bring of Yarne is very serious. Are you certain?”
He moved against the tight bandages, and pain rippled through him. “Yes. He can’t be explained in any other way. He is dead, a corpse. Whatever lives in him is not the essence of mortal or immortal but is something with sentience. Ghakazian gives him words to say and the key to unlock Yarne’s memories when he needs to. How did Ghakazian do it? And why?”
“Lie still. I can heal quickly, but not if you thrash about. I don’t know how he did it, but then, how did he learn that he was able to take the essences of his people through his Gate and across space? He must have studied the Book of Lore. Perhaps he learned other things there.”
Silence fell on them. Danarion drifted into a light sleep, the sudden loss of identity that comes to the injured, and dreamed that Lallin sat beside him, holding his hand. Sholia watched him, getting up sometimes to replenish the fire and stand at the cave mouth, where snow was melting and running in cold rivulets down the Mountain. When he woke again, he was stronger, able to sit and eat. “If I had completed the task I was set, a Messenger would have come for me,” he said as he ate the food that she had prepared. “I have found the Gate, but I am still on Shol, and therefore I am required to undo the evil as best I can. To tell you the truth, Sholia,” he confessed, smiling at her, “I am strangely reluctant to go back to Danar. I think of Janthis and see only Nenan’s face. Danar is like a fading dream in my mind.”
“I dare not think of Danar at all,” she replied, a catch in her voice. “It is forever unattainable to me now. I shall never again greet Janthis. I shall grow old on Shol. I have been … lonely, Danarion.”
He wanted to embrace her, kiss her on the mouth, drive the loneliness away with his body. But remembering his dream, he knew that it was Lallin he wanted to hold, not Sholia. “What shall we do?” he said unsteadily.
“Tomorrow you will be able to walk. The next day you will feel well again. The arrow pierced your left side, did you know? I think Ghakazian will come looking for you himself. He will know by now that an arrow struck you but that your body has disappeared. He will be frightened. He will bring many soldiers and will come to the Mountain.”
“Then we will go down and wait for him in the proper place, by the Hall of Waiting. You will come with me?”
She sat still for a long time, her expression unreadable, and he thought how fear had ruled her life since the moment when the Worldmaker had stood before them on Danar and claimed all the worlds of making for his own. Her one act of desperate courage had been to cast him from Shol, an act of lunatic bravery he did not think he himself could ever have accomplished, and she should have been purged by it, but he saw that she was not. Fear was still there, a residue in her essence that would never be washed away. At last she pressed her hands together, a gesture of pain, and glanced across at him and away. “I will come,” she said.
The next day, as she had promised, he was able to walk about the cave. He felt weak but whole again. She removed the bandages, and he saw the swollen red welt, almost identical to the older scar, before she covered it again with one thin strip of linen. She had washed his clothes, and he struggled into them and felt immediately himself.
That night they sat by the fire and talked of inconsequential things: the changing weather, the people she had cured. He slept long and deeply while she sat outside and watched the constellations appear in the night sky, a dusting of sparkling shapes that did little to alleviate the loneliness Danarion had rekindled in her.
In the morning they prepared to leave the cave. Danarion took the knife he had stolen from the guard and hesitated, turning it over in his fingers, but then shrugged and tucked it inside his shirt. Sholia wrapped herself in a short, sleeved cloak, and they went out into the dawn.
The sky was a clear, watery blue, and gulls rustled overhead on their way to the beaches. The ground was wet with melted snow, although here and there in the places of perpetual mountain shadow small patches of white remained. The cave was a natural hollow, its entrance hidden by a short slope that rose at its mouth and then plunged away to join the main sweep of the Mountain, and Danarion saw that it was not far from the tunnel through which he had groped with Nenan, lit by his own small light.
He and Sholia skirted the slope and began the short climb to the uneven, rounded plateau where the funeral had taken place. The path they took was narrow but well-worn. Beside it, wherever there was a hollow in the rock or a hint of shelter, bones lay on the tattered remains of woven mats, bleached and worn by summer sun and winter rains, often drifted over with the always-moving sand. Many of the corpses had been wrapped in white shrouds, which had loosened and blown away to hang netted against the tough mountain scrub and be picked at by birds eager for threads to line their nests.
Once on the plateau Danarion breathed a sigh of relief. He paused to look out upon the plain, miles of sand and rock to the left, its brown grass ahead leading to the dark blur of the orchards out of which the road ran, and far away to the haze of the ocean. He missed Nenan, and in that moment Sholia was more of a stranger to him than his son. “Nothing is moving,” Sholia remarked, and he did not reply, his eyes traveling slowly over the view. The snow he and Nenan had floundered through on their wild dash for safety was gone, melted away into the dead grasses, taking with it the reality of that night, that dawn. “He may not come today,” Sholia went on. “The wait could be long.”
I don’t care, Danarion thought mutinously. I don’t care about anything anymore but the well-being of my wife, my child. He touched the knife resting against his skin and started down the Mountain.
By noon they had angled across the plain, avoiding the orchards in order to strike the road where it began to hug the long side of the Mountain. When they reached the road, Danarion stopped. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Is there any bread?”
Wordlessly she sank to the ground and opened the pouch she carried, and he wolfed down the bread and herbs she offered. Thirst began to trouble him and he found a small pool of melted snow caught in a dip in the grass. Kneeling, he lifted the freezing water to his mouth, lapping it up like a dog, aware of Sholia’s eyes on his back.
By sunset they stood outside the excavation in the cliff, and Ishban itself reared from the plain in the distance, its walls and leaping spires stained blood-red, as he had seen them with Nenan by his side. The gulls that had flapped overhead on their way to the ocean in the morning now streamed inland against the placid pink sky, and Danarion winced at the sight and strident sound of them. “We will wait in the Hall,” he said peremptorily. “At least we
will have shelter there.” He led the way into the darkness, under the timber props and beside a clutter of workmen’s tools. The sunset followed him, laying a shaft of red light under his feet.
Once in the Hall he turned to face the entrance and lowered himself to the floor, his back against a wall. He was tired. Sholia dropped her pouch beside him and began to wander, touching the places where the copper reliefs lay exposed to the last of the daylight. When she came to the lintels of the door that led so irrationally onto the raw rock face, she stood very still gazing at it, her hands loose at her sides. “Sun-lord,” she whispered. “It was all so long ago. I can no longer believe that it was I.” She stayed there until full darkness overflowed from the world outside and washed up the walls in a soundless tide, blotting them out, and then she came and sat beside Danarion. He held out a hand, groping in the darkness, and she took it. He thought of giving a little of his own light to make the darkness more bearable, but he was too weary to make the effort and had almost forgotten how. In any case, neither of them had anything to fear from this place. They were a part of it. Their time had been its time. They felt as quietly, calmly useless as it was now and sat clasping hands, each sunk in far dreams. At last Danarion’s eyes grew heavy, and his head slid onto her shoulder. It is ridiculous, an insult, for two such as us to face a sun-lord, he thought drowsily as her arm went around him. We are two children whose spirit of make-believe has led them into realms of unknown danger. He slept and dreamed of Nenan and Lallin again, and the feel of the mountain stream against his skin on hot summer afternoons, but something of the ancient magic of the Hall drifted softly over him as the night wore away, and his dream changed to one of Janthis waiting by his body in the jeweled council hall on Danar and a Messenger flashing like white starlight through space, coming to take him home.
When he opened his eyes, morning light filled the room, drab and colorless on the chipped and broken stone, and Sholia was alert, shaking him gently. “I can hear something on the road,” she said. He scrambled to his feet, and they ran to the entrance. Sunlight dazzled on the sand, blinding them for a moment, but then their eyes adjusted and they turned to the road. They saw pennants waving, yellow and black suns on a red background, and the muffled booming of a drum rolled toward them. Like a black ribbon a procession of horsemen wound along the road, and as it came slowly closer they saw a break in the stream, a large litter of yellow and black carried by slaves with its curtains tightly drawn. Danarion heard Sholia’s breath sucked in beside him, and his own breath came fast hard. “He came, he came,” she whispered tensely. Danarion took her arm and drew her out from the shadow of the doorway, and together they stood with the sun beating on their heads and the wind whipping at their clothes.
The drumbeat advanced, no longer muffled but a clear, sharp loom, loom that vibrated in the cliff behind them. The outriders with their fluttering pennants were now close enough to reveal stern faces under yellow and black caps. Danarion and Sholia did not stir. The outriders passed without noticing them, followed by soldiers on lean black horses, two by two.
As the litter finally came abreast, a swaying, silken box which shone in the sun, Danarion stepped forward. “I am here!” he called. Instantly there was confusion. The outriders reined in and wheeled. The drumbeat ceased abruptly. The soldiers milled about but soon saw him and came thundering down upon him, and in a second he was ringed. The captain looked down on him, his face pale, the trembling hands clutching the reins. The slaves carrying the litter had obeyed some unheard command and had lowered it to the ground, and Sholia saw the curtain twitch and pull back. The slaves averted their faces. A long white leg appeared, topped at thigh length by a pleated tunic of silver, and Yarne slid from the litter and came striding over the sand. The ring of horsemen parted to let him through, and he came up to Danarion and halted. He gave Sholia one disinterested glance, and his eyes, brighter and paler than the sky that poured light into his shining blond hair, returned to the man fronting him.
“You ran away again,” he said reproachfully. “You promised not to hurt me, but you did.”
Sholia stared at him, and Danarion laid a hand gently on the slim, silver-hung shoulder.
“I am sorry, Yarne,” he said quietly. “They were going to kill me. I had to leave.”
“They would never have done it,” Yarne insisted. “I would not have let them. Please come back with me. I need you very much.”
“I cannot,” Danarion answered. “In a moment they will receive an order to shoot me down, and nothing you can say will change that. That Lady wishes me dead.”
“I don’t see why,” Yarne said evenly. “She said I could have you for as long as I wanted if we found you.”
“She lied. Please go to her, Yarne, quickly, before she tires of waiting, and tell her that Sholia wishes to speak to her.”
Yarne looked at Sholia with more interest and then nodded. “All right, but that name will make her very angry. What game are you playing? Where is Nenan?”
“He went home. Please go.”
Yarne swung back, and once more the soldiers made a path for him. The captain sat motionless, an arrow already fitted to his bow, watchfulness and a resigned horror on his face. Yarne had reached the litter. He pulled aside the curtain and bent, and for a while no one moved. But then a white hand came out, gripping his shoulder, and the soldiers and slaves around the litter murmured and turned their faces away. Slowly the Lady emerged, a black foot, a swing of stiff red gown that glittered with gold thread in the sunlight, a small head swathed in coiled hair. At a sharp word from the captain the ring around the two prisoners broke up, and Yarne and the Lady walked toward the cliff. Sholia steadily watched them come, her eyes on the Lady, and at the moment of recognition she saw the little feet stumble and the head droop toward Yarne.
Brother and sister came to a halt. The Lady’s skin still showed no hint of a line, but looking at her carefully under the pitiless sun, Danarion received the impression of an age so great that it was carried by her like a measurelessly heavy burden and encased her like walls of iron. It was most clearly revealed in her eyes, now narrowed and appraising, a black accumulation of years, uncounted, stale, and endless.
“So, Tagar, you have found her,” she said, the little hands with their cruel nails mincing through the cold air. “Or she has found you, which is more likely. Where have you spent the long ages, Sholia? I have searched for you.”
“I did not want to be found, Ghakazian,” Sholia replied, her voice teetering on the verge of breaking.
At the mention of his name Ghakazian put up a white hand and stepped back against Yarne’s tall body as though for protection. “And now you do,” the sweet, high voice went on. “Why? Have you tired of being hunted? I shall prepare a special cell for you, deep in the rock under my House, where you may meditate upon the time stretching ahead of you.” The little oval face was lifted briefly to the sun, and the red mouth curved. “I think there is much life left in your sun. Much life.”
The threat was so like the one the Unmaker had hurled at her centuries earlier that Sholia faltered. Her hand found Danarion’s, and she clutched at him, but her voice had gained strength, and she looked at Ghakazian calmly.
“More life than in your own, shining dimly over Ghaka,” she replied. “I shall live longer than you, sun-lord.”
The listening soldiers muttered, shocked at her impudence yet not understanding, and for a moment Ghakazian remained silent, thinking. Then the nails clicked, and the spine straightened under the heavy brocaded covering.
“I cannot stand here in the cold all day. Captain, shoot that stupid body. I will send Tagar gibbering back onto the Mountain, and you and I, Sholia, will return to the House. I am relieved to finally have you in my hands.”
But Danarion swiftly raised an arm, and with one savage movement he thrust his face close to hers. “Look at me, Ghakazian,” he ordered. “Look deep into me before the captain shoots, for his effort will be wasted. You cannot destroy me
with an arrow. Look well!”
Startled, she turned the velvet-black eyes to his and at once was caught. Behind Chilka’s gaze Danarion’s essence unfolded, tendriling through Chilka’s mind. As she staggered Yarne’s body suddenly loosened and swayed. “Danarion!” she whispered. “Danarion …” Recovering her dignity, though her skin was like chalk and her eyes seemed to fill her small face, she slashed an arm at the soldiers. “Go!” she screamed, and they pulled back, afraid. She clung to Yarne, and with her reviving strength he stiffened.
Danarion pointed behind him. “We will go into the Hall,” he said curtly. “What must be said is not for mortal ears.” He did not know if it was Sholia’s presence or Chilka’s quick anger, but he felt confidence flow into him, pumping through him on Chilka’s strong heart. He swung about and strode under the shadow of the passage, Sholia beside him, and the Lady and her brother followed.
27
Inside the Hall it was dim and very cold, full of a brooding quiet that rendered them all momentarily speechless. Then Ghakazian rounded, shouting.
“How did you get here? It has been ages beyond ages! You did not come through the Gate, none knows that better than I!” His voice boomed in the enclosed space, waking echoes that expanded it and threw it against Danarion like an avalanche of sound.
“Janthis looked in the mirror,” he answered quietly. “He saw that Shol’s Gate was missing, and with a Messenger’s permission he sent me to find it.”
Stargate Page 37