by Clayton, Jo;
Sensayii’s feelers twisted and untwisted frantically, and the hairs of his orange pompons rippled like grass in a high wind. The other two were visibly agitated, jittering about on the padded benches Dryknolte had supplied to fit their nonhuman anatomy.
In the face of their continued silence, Aleytys went on. “As you know, the diadem is not a simple piece of jewelry. You imprisoned three souls in your damn treasure vault. How do you answer to them for four hundred years of utter boredom?”
“Three!”
Aleytys shrugged and drank from the glass. She glanced toward the door. The little man sat in the shadow, unnoticed and inconspicuous. She wrinkled her nose and brought her attention back to the RMoahl. “They are vehemently opposed to returning to that dullness. We fought you before and won.”
“You had help.”
“I’ll always have help. I can summon help from the very stones beneath your feet. Remember Lamarchos?” Her smile faded. “I can’t always control the summoning, RMoahl. Push me too far and men will die, no matter what I want.”
“Then come.”
“No.” She stood up. “Have a good evening, despoites. Dryknolte hopes you have enjoyed your stay in this place.”
She walked away, head high, shoulders squared, though her knees shook so she was afraid of stumbling. She slid onto the stool and flattened her hands on the bar. Dryknolte came over. “I need a glass of wine,” she said quickly.
He poured the wine for her. “They bother you?”
“No.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“I don’t like spiders.”
“You shouldn’t have to look at ugly things.” His voice was softened and he reached but to stroke the smooth skin on the back of her hand.
She shrugged and moved her arm. “I’ll survive.” She gulped down the last of the wine and beckoned to the Actor. “Who now?”
“The two over there. One’s a ship’s captain. The other, ship’s doctor.”
She chuckled. “I should make you split those tips, Actor.” She swung off the stool. “Let’s go.”
The rest of the evening went without incident. The RMoahl sat without moving, watching her continually. The little gray man sat ignored, on the bench by the exit. Dryknolte’s yellow eyes followed her about. By midnight, Aleytys felt giddy with the pressures thrusting in on her from all these factions. She was tempted to jump on a table and introduce them to each other before falling down in a shrieking fit.
When the clock hands met at the top of the face, she moved gratefully around the end of the bar and through the door, hiding a yawn behind a hand. She nodded at Erd, the Flash, and went to the dressing room, a narrow closet with a curtain sagging across the doorway. With a weary sigh, she ran a thumbnail over the closures and stepped out of the filmy costume. As she thrust a hanger under the shoulder straps she felt eyes on her. She wheeled. Dryknolte stood outside the curtain watching her over the top. Swishing the costume in front of her, she glared at him. “Get the hell out of here.”
He stood looking at her for another full minute, then turned and left.
“My god.” She fumbled the hanger onto the hook and hastily pulled her worn gray tunic over her head. “The world is full of crazies.” She sat and pulled on her pants, then her boots. “All coming at me, dammit. How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?”
Ignoring Dryknolte, she hurried across the crowded room and stepped into the cool night. The sky was clouding over, threatening to rain, the air thick and humid. Star Street was still filled with revelers, though their shouts tended to boom hollowly in the tension that preceded the impending storm. She turned to her left and began cutting the exitway to Tintin’s place.
A tall, slim shadow stepped out of the darkness and moved beside her. A hand fell on her arm. She felt an aura of evil and looked up into a gentle, pale face with large dreamy eyes. “Who are you?”
“Lovax.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Don’t believe all you hear. We should talk.”
“I don’t think so.”
The RMoahl came out of Dryknolte’s, following her, three looming black shadows like huge devils. She could feel a frisson of terror shudder through Lovax.
He glanced back. “What are those?”
“RMoahl Hounds. They think they own me. I got more company. Look.”
The small Company spy had crossed the street and stood watching her as she talked to Lovax.
Lovax nodded. “I know about him. They want you uphill. I could protect you.”
“Hah! I’m not that big a fool, Lovax. You couldn’t protect a pile of dung from Chu Manhanu.”
His fingers nipped at her arm until she grunted with pain. “Dungpile, let’s go.” His voice was soft and without expression. He took his hand away and she felt the prick of a knife against her side. “Or I slit your talented throat right now and take my chances.”
Aleytys shuddered. Swardheld’s black eyes opened but he made no move to take her body. “Go with him,” he rumbled. “Get away from the audience. Then we’ll, take care of him.” She let herself tremble more and let Lovax guide her into the narrow alley running behind Dryknolte’s tavern.
He pulled her along at a pace near a run, dodging in and out of the stinking, dark ways between the blocky buildings huddling next to the outer wall, finally darting into a doorway and up carpeted stairs until they were standing in a noisome, pitch-black hallway on the third floor of the anonymous structure. He slapped a key against the door and sidled quickly through the widening opening, pulling her with him.
Careless, now that he was in the safety of his lair, he dropped her arm and pointed at a low couch.
Aleytys shook her head. “No. I’m sorry about this, Lovax. Thing is, you’re even worse than Bran said. I know that. Psifreak, Lovax. Empath. I know you now.” She shook her head and spoke quietly, not bothering to whisper. “Swardheld, he makes me want to vomit. What do we do?”
Lovax frowned. “What kind of …” Knife in hand, he leaped at her.
Swardheld took over smoothly. He swayed to one side, the knife missing him by the width of a hair and, before Lovax could recover, smashed his elbow into the pale man’s throat, crushing the larynx. Lovax crumpled in a boneless sprawl, shuddered once or twice, then went totally limp, mouth open as in a soundless scream, eyes wide, terrified, staring horribly at the ceiling.
Swardheld stood over him. “In a way it’s not fair, Lee. Your looks always mislead them.” He searched the pockets until he found the key, Aleytys was glad she had no control over her body now, since she felt horribly sick. Swardheld shook his head. “I hope you never get used to this, freyka.” He moved away, keyed the door open and stepped into the stygian blackness in the hall. As he shut the door, he murmured, “But you have to admit we’re cleaning up Star Street.” He felt his way downstairs and out into the street. “I’ll stay in possession till we get back to Tintin’s. These alleys are treacherous.”
He moved swiftly along, throwing the key into a pile of garbage after turning several corners. Aleytys felt uneasy. The winding alleys confused her. “You know how to go?” she whispered anxiously.
“Verdammt, freyka, think I’m blind? I watched the way as he brought us here.”
She was relieved when he finally emerged on the side street leading to the starport. Swardheld leaned against the wall and relinquished control of the body. For the first time, Aleytys had some difficulty reestablishing herself. The body slumped to its knees, nearly fell on its face in a clutter of paper and scraps of food before she managed to fit back in place. Rubbing hands nervously over her forearms, she half ran across the street to the double doors of Tintin’s place. She stopped a minute to arrange her face and catch her breath, then went inside.
Tintin looked up as she came in. “A man was asking about you a little while ago. You want to earn your living on your back, go find another place to stay. I don’t hold with that.”
Aleytys sniffed. “No need t
o ruffle your feathers. I don’t peddle it.” She turned her back on the sour face and started up the stairs. Behind her, the doors pushed open and the three RMoahl started to enter. With a gasp of outrage, Tintin jumped up and darted across the lobby, protesting volubly as he went. Aleytys giggled, grateful for the first time for the old man’s prejudices.
Her room was on the third floor and Tintin didn’t believe in spending money on lifts. She sighed with relief as she stepped up the last step and began walking down the hall. A hot bath for her aching body, then bed and sleep. A good, comfortable double bed with plenty of room to toss about if she felt like it. And all the world and all her problems shut outside the sturdy door for a little while.
The narrow hall was poorly lit. Tintin didn’t believe in spending money on extra lighting, either. She wasn’t paying much attention to where she put her feet so she stumbled and nearly fell over a soggily resistant something lying in the middle of the worn carpet.
A body. Oh god, what else! What else on this damn endless day. Gasping, she dropped to her knees and touched the man. She felt a faint flicker of life. She leaned closer. Blood was still moving sluggishly from great gaping wounds in his chest and stomach. No time to waste, though. She flexed her fingers, summoning her will, forcing her aching mind to concentrate on the roaring of her symbolic power river and, as the healing power gathered in her center and roared along her arms, she pressed her hands on the wounds, letting the black water flow into them, praying she wasn’t too late.
The dim spark brightened, and all at once, blazed. The man, whoever he was, had a tremendous will to live. He should have been dead already, should have died from the shock of the terrible wounds, but …
The flow diminished to a trickle as the water tickled the blood cells into furious growth to replace the nearly total blood loss. And with a last flick of effort, washed through her body to cleanse out the poisons of fatigue.
The man opened his eyes. “Wha …”
“You’re all right, now.”
He sat up, looked at his torn clothing, at her bloody hands, traced the disappearing marks of his wounds. “A woman of many talents,” he began.
“Hush.” She heard footsteps on the stairs and a querulous muttering. “Quick. On your feet.” She frowned as she realized belatedly who he was. “What are you … never mind … no time … I don’t want Tintin finding us here. He’s mad enough with me now.” She jumped to her feet, staggered as her knees locked, then ran on her toes to her room, pressed the key against the lock and pushed the door open. “In here.”
Grey slid past her into the room. Aleytys eased the door shut, dropped the key on her dressing table, stripped off her tunic and boots, ignoring the man’s startled exclamation, kicked off her pants and slid her arms into a flimsy wrapper snatched from a hook beside the door. Darting to a chest of drawers, she fished out a clean towel and a sliver of soap, then trotted back to the door. Her hand on the latch, she turned. “Look, I’m going for my bath. Old Tintin’s on his way up to complain about something. I’ll meet him in the hall. You just keep your mouth shut and don’t open the door to anyone but me.”
“Aren’t you taking a dangerous chance? What do you know about me?”
“You said you were curious. Well, I have my share of curiosity, a big share. Besides, I’m empath. You can’t lie to me.”
“Surprise, surprise. Here.” He threw the key to her. “Better have this. Then I don’t need to guess who’s at the door.”
“Yeah. Right. Thanks.” She dropped the key in her pocket and went out.
Tintin came puffing up the hallway, meeting her just in front of the huge, shapeless bloodstain. “You tell your bug friends to keep outta my place, woman. I don’t want ’em here. Don’t like ’em and never have.”
“Talk to Dryknolte. I didn’t invite them.”
His bleary eyes narrowed in anger. “I don’t need you. Plenty of other places for you to stay.”
“I like it here.”
“Trouble, that’s all you are.” But he didn’t quite dare order her out of the house, not with Bran and Dryknolte sponsoring her. “You keep ’em out of here, you hear me.”
Aleytys shrugged. “I’m tired and I want my bath. You through?”
“Women. Always trouble.” The bent little figure shuffled off toward the stairs muttering complaints to himself.
With a tired laugh, Aleytys went on to the bathroom at the head of the stairs.
Chapter VII
The eastern horizon was showing streaks of red when Gwynnor brought the boat alongside the landing. Above them, the red sandstone sloped back steeply in a broken terraced surface. A wooden stair crawled in lazy zigzags up the slant. Sioned looked apprehensively at the sky. “Would the starmen follow us here?”
Gwynnor shook his head impatiently. “How could I know? Come on.”
They started up the stairway. The risers were attached in some way so that they made each footstep a booming rumble that echoed from the reflective surface of the stone. Sioned reached out and took Gwynnor’s hand as the silence and the echoes played on her nerves, amplifying the exacerbation from the sleepless night, her quarrel with Gwynnor over Aleytys, and the residue of terror from the storm. Gwynnor pulled her close, glad to have her beside him, not taking her irritation seriously.
They were breathing hard by the time they reached the top. Wind-sculpted cedars clung precariously on the brink of the precipitous slope. Behind these, a box hedge loomed, wild and untamed on the outside but neatly clipped on the inner surface. The red stone had been crumbled and replaced by a layer of soil covered by lush green turfs until a velvet lawn stretched in a horseshoe ring about the front of the graceful stone structure ahead of them. A crushed red gravel walk, raked neat as a swept floor, edges razor clean, broke the horseshoe of green in a straight line to the portico of the temple.
Sioned halted, pulling Gwynnor to a stop beside her. “I don’t think we’re supposed to walk on that.”
“How else do we get to the temple? Come on. Don’t be an idiot!”
Reluctantly, Sioned stepped onto the gravel, shivering at the crunch crunch of her feet. She looked behind and winced at the disturbance their feet had made. Gwynnor tugged at her and she walked faster, still uneasy in the rigidly disciplined landscape that seemed antithetical to human presence. “It doesn’t like us,” she muttered.
Gwynnor shook his head, feeling none of her trepidation. “You’re letting your imagination beat you, Sioned. You’ve lived hard the last couple of months and you’re worn out.” He plunged ahead, pulling the reluctant girl along with him.
At the end of the path, two heavy posts supported a lintel from which hung a verdigris-stained copper gong wider than Gwynnor was tall. A log with a padded end hung in front of the gong, suspended from paired supports.
Gwynnor looked at Sioned, one hand resting on the log.
“All right, if you have to.” She backed away, raising her hands to cover her ears.
“We came to see Synwedda.” He threw his weight against the log, forcing it back, then using the stored momentum to crash the padded end against the gong, sending a deep vibrant note thrumming over the mountaintop.
As the great demanding note died to a humming silence, he stepped to Sioned’s side and stood waiting in front of the dark, silent arch opening into the building.
An eerie figure in a hooded white garment with long hand-concealing sleeves came silently from the darkness to stand like a formidable human question mark in the archway.
Gwynnor lifted his head and stepped forward, confronting the acolyte. “The cerdd live in terror on the maes. Breudwyddas are dead. Maranhedd has been taken from us, every grain. Now young cerdd are being stolen. We come to see what the Synwedda proposes to do about it.”
After a moment’s silence, a slim hand crept out of the sleeve and beckoned. Then the acolyte turned and paced swiftly, noiselessly, into the interior.
Sioned hung back. “I can wait out here.”
“No. Come in with me. I need you.”
She moved closer to him. “Thanks, Gwyn.”
They followed the silent, gliding figure into the heart of the temple, a strange room, like a polished cylinder drilled vertically through the stone, opening onto the sky. The floor was tiled around the outside, with a circle of immaculately raked earth occupying the center. A tree grew from the earth, branches spiraling up the trunk, their fluted tips brushing against the walls of the cylinder. Clusters of grey-green flowers, withering into fruit, dropped a heavy, over-sweet perfume on the continually circling currents of air, a fragrance like rotten apricots, dazing the brain, slowing the metabolism. Gwynnor and Sioned stood uncertainly for some time, caught by the drugged air and low, burring chimes.
Until Sioned grew angry. She straightened, her eyes burning fiercely, furious at this manipulation of her mind and body. The whole of her life had been spent rebelling against her culture’s demand for female submissiveness and she resented this attempt to put her back on her knees. She slapped Gwynnor, first on one cheek then on the other, shocking him out of his stupor.
His eyes swung past her.
The Synwedda stood in the arch across the cylinder, a narrow white figure with a cloud of silver-white hair springing from her narrow head, framed under a drooping limb of the strange tree. As Gwynnor watched, the figure grew more sharp-edged, the clarity of her power blurring the reality of everything around her. The numinous power sent thrill on thrill through him. He would have fallen on his knees except that Sioned, still deeply resentful, stood rigidly erect beside him and he felt a commitment to support her.
“Chimes,” she hissed. “Silly perfumed drugs. Stupidity!” She planted herself in front of the Synwedda. “Is that what you do? Is that ALL you can do?”
The old woman looked startled, then her face flushed with anger and the numinous brightness about her diminished.
But Sioned didn’t give her a chance to voice her disapproval. “Company men raided the pack trains and stole the maranhedd. What do you do to protect your gift? Nothing! They raided the villages. What do you do to protect your people? Nothing! The shrines in the villages are broken down. What do you do? Nothing! Breudwyddas, your sisters, are destroyed, ashed! What do you do? Explain it to me. How do you act? I see no flames on Caer Seramdun. I see no skimmers raining from the sky with lightning playing in their guts. I see no concentrations of storm over the starcity, emptying continuously on that sore on Maeve’s breast until the pounding rain has washed the pestilence away. I see no earth opening beneath the city to swallow the evil. And now the skimmers come for the children of Maeve. My father is dead! My mother is dead! I am driven to living in the fields like a llydogen fawr or they’d have me in their kennels.” She waved a hand at Gwynnor. “His father is dead and the City men came hunting for him. How much more has to happen before you act. That’s what we came to ask. What have you done? What will you do?”