by Alison Baird
The gardens seemed to become even more luxurious as she walked: there were bowers, shady benches, the occasional small pavilion or round pillared temple. There were boxwood hedges, and topiary clipped in fabulous shapes: globes, pyramids, birds, beasts. There were rose arbors, and huge stone urns. There were avenues of stately cypress, and one lane of very tall and slender trees with bark like the husks of pineapples and high crowns of plumose leaves. Wasn’t there a name for these trees like enormous feather dusters standing on end? Palm trees, that was it. She had seen pictures of them in travel books, but never laid eyes on a real one, nor imagined that she ever would: they added to the unreality of it all.
There was not a human being in sight. Once she was startled to see a female figure standing in the bushes only a few paces away, staring out at her, but in the next moment she saw that it was only a marble statue—a graceful young girl in a loose-flowing gown with a pitcher in the crook of one arm. Other statues too, were dispersed about the grounds: men and maidens, gods and goddesses, lions, hounds, deer, stallions—a veritable menagerie of marble and verdigrised bronze. Groups of statuary stood in pools, which must be fountains: chariots drawn by swans or prancing horses, groups of cavorting nymphs. But the fountains were still, the water beneath them mirror-smooth. They must be a splendid sight, she thought wistfully, when the water ran through them.
Presently she came upon a path that wound in careless meanders through the gardens until it led her to a lake—a small artificial lake, completely covered in the pads and blooms of water lilies, white and gold and wine-colored. Beneath them, through green gaps of water, swam golden carp with wise whiskered faces. A slow-moving stream fed the lake. Beyond lay another lake, larger and without any lilies: here swans idled regally with arched necks, seeming to admire their own elegant white reflections. Peacocks strutted on the lawns, blue-breasted ones with green tails and white ones with tails like lace fans.
And then she became aware of a distant sound—a low, constant, rushing roar, as of cataracts pouring over rocks—and turning toward it she glimpsed a dance of whitewater through the trees. She ran forward eagerly.
Here, at last, was a functioning fountain: a huge and splendid one, all mermaids and dolphins and hippocampi, with plashing plumes of water playing around them. The flying spray dewed her cheeks as she walked forward, while the roar of the water, now that she was close to it, at once overwhelmed and exhilarated her. It was, above all, a comforting sign of habitation. Someone had set this fountain in motion; the place could not, after all, be altogether deserted.
Ahead of her and slightly to the left rose the green hill, a narrow road winding up its side. Above it the palace’s towers seemed to float in the waning afterglow, weightless as the clouds above them: brightly-colored banners flew from them like flames. She forced down a sudden feeling of unease as she set her foot upon the road and began her ascent.
22
East of the Sun, West of the Moon
WHAT AN AMAZING DREAM THAT WAS, Damion thought.
He stretched, yawning. “Jo?” he said, without opening his eyes. “Jo, wake up, you’re snoring again . . . Do you know, I had the strangest dream last night—just like one of those stories Ailia tells . . .”
His voice trailed away as his eyes opened. For a minute or so he lay quite still, staring at the ceiling above him. It was white, with decorative moldings of leaves and flowers. He and Jomar lay in neat white beds, in a spacious room with large-paned windows through which the golden light of late evening flowed. Sitting up, he saw that he was clad in a loose white robe, and there was a faint, pale scar on his right arm.
And then he noticed the range of mountains outside the windows.
Where and when had he seen mountains like these before? Taller than they were wide, their pointed summits free of ice and snow, they prodded his memory like goads. He leaped out of bed and ran over to the windows. They were open, a balmy breeze blowing through them. This was not—could not be—Trynisia. He looked out on smooth-mown lawns, shady trees, flowerbeds, and a few benches. The vegetation was all of the lush, feathery variety he had seen in the tropics. Beyond a white-painted wall rose the tops of more trees and the roofs of other buildings.
As he leaned out of the window, he caught sight of another enigma. Low in the reddening sky, shining through a gap in the sunset clouds, was an atmospheric effect of some kind. It was like a rainbow, a vast arc that curved up from the horizon to vanish in the masses of rose-gold cumuli above. But it could not be a rainbow, for it had no color: it was a pale silver-white, with little glints here and there as though it were dusted with diamonds. Nonplussed, he turned his attention back to that evocative range of mountains, the one feature in all this strangeness that seemed familiar. Bracing himself on the window ledge, he leaned farther out.
And then he saw the palace.
It was off to his left, beyond the roofs and trees, perching on its steep-sided hill. There could be no mistaking it: it was the many-towered white palace from his vision.
“Where in blazes are we?” He turned to see Jomar sitting up in bed, tousle-headed and frowning. He wore a robe like Damion’s, and a white cloth bandage stretched across his chest. “Where are we?” Jomar repeated.
Damion hesitated. “I think,” he said, “we must be in Eldimia.”
“What—how?” Jomar frowned. “What happened? The last thing I remember was fighting the Zims up on the roof. How did we get here?”
Damion decided not to tell him about the winged creatures. He still wasn’t sure himself whether they had truly existed, or merely been a figment of his pain-clouded mind. He hedged, “I’m not certain—I think I lost consciousness shortly after you did.”
At that moment the door opened, and a slight, white-clad figure entered and stood smiling at them. It was Ana: but she seemed changed. She was no longer bent with age and weariness, but walked nearly upright, and she no longer used a cane. Her gown was of some soft, fine fabric, and her hair was once more neatly rolled into a bun atop her head.
“Ah! I thought I heard voices!” she said. There was a loud meow and Greymalkin darted through the door. The cat sprang up onto Jomar’s bed, purring.
“Where in the Pit are we?” demanded Jomar.
“In a hostel,” Ana replied. “You were brought here to be healed.”
“I meant what country are we in? Is this that other country of yours—Eldimia?”
“It is indeed. We are safe now, Jomar. There is no pain or discomfort now where you were wounded?”
Jomar’s hand went to his chest and the cloth bandage there. “Wounded . . . I remember. An arrow hit me . . . But how did we get to Eldimia? And where in the world is it?”
“Eldimia,” said Ana slowly, “is not in the world at all.”
They stared at her, speechless, and she sat down on the edge of Jomar’s bed, petting her cat. “Oh dear, it’s so hard to explain . . . You see, we have moved beyond the world that you know, and passed into another.”
“You mean—we’re in Heaven?” asked Damion, almost whispering.
A smile touched Ana’s lips. “In a manner of speaking—yes.”
“Heaven!” Jomar scowled at her. “What are you saying, that we’re all dead? We died back there, in the ruins—that arrow killed me?”
Ana laughed. “Dead? My dear Jomar, how could that be?” She laid her hand on his arm. “You’re too solid for a spirit—and entirely too talkative for a corpse. No, Jomar, we did not die. You were gravely wounded and we were all in peril of our lives, but the Guardians of the Stone saved us. They were convinced at last that we were the Tryna Lia’s companions, and had a right to the Star Stone. At my asking they conveyed us safely to Eldimia, along with the gem.”
The two men stared at her as she went over to the nearest window and stood looking out of it. “This may be difficult for you to understand, but I will try my best to explain. Eldimia lies in the Otherworld: the realm beyond the world’s end, between the sun and the moon. The world, a
s you know, is round, and so you might say it has no edge or end: but it has, for all that. The world’s end, its outer boundary and the limit of its influence, lies at the orbit of the moon. In the airless void beyond are the planets: the so-called higher spheres that the Elei journeyed to long ago with the aid of their magic. The planets are not part of some spirit-realm, you see. They belong to our own material universe, and so a mortal may travel to them without suffering death.
“Welessan the Wanderer spoke of these things. Much of his account was wrong, but through no fault of his own. His mind was influenced by the cosmology of his day—the seven heavens and the five elements and so on. He thought the strange lands he glimpsed in his vision must lie within the fabulous crystal spheres he had been taught about as a boy: heavenly realms, the abodes of immortal spirits. But they actually lay within the planets themselves. In the Second Sphere, as he called it, he saw not an immortal paradise but a real land in a real world.”
She gestured to the garden, to the roofs and trees lit by the crimson afterglow. “Here dwell the Elei who fled your world in ages past, along with people of many other races. Here in this city of Mirimar, on the island-continent of Eldimia, in the planet of Arainia that you call the Morning Star.”
THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE. At last Damion asked in a low voice, “How did we come here?”
“As I told you, the cherubim who are the Stone’s appointed Guardians brought us here,” Ana said. “They accepted that the Tryna Lia had come at last, and so they were free to surrender the Stone into her keeping. But she was carried off to Eldimia, so in order for her to claim the gem they had to transport it here. Like dragons, they have the power to move between planets by entering the Ethereal Plane. When they saw our plight they would not leave us behind, but bore us with them through the Ether. Since we are the true Tryna Lia’s companions, they were allowed to intervene.”
The cherubim, Damion thought. Eagle-winged and lion-bodied: the servants of the Old Ones, the Guardians of the Light. “I saw them, on the temple roof,” he murmured. “I thought it was all a dream . . . But what of the others? Is Lorelyn here? And whatever became of Ailia?”
“They are both here in Eldimia. But they are not yet safe,” said Ana, suddenly becoming brisk. She left the window and came to stand before them. “The real fight still lies before us. We have the Stone; but Lorelyn is in Mandrake’s power. He is holding her in the palace of Halmirion.”
“Mandrake!” Jomar’s face turned fierce. “I’d forgotten about him. Wait till I get my hands on him—!”
“You cannot fight Mandrake,” said Ana with unwonted sharpness. “He is more dangerous then you can possibly realize. King Khalazar and his men are nothing next to him. He might have pretended to be your ally on Elendor, but he is the true enemy, the great prince we are destined to fight.” Sadness passed across her face, like the shadow of a cloud, and was gone again. “I must go now. King Tiron—the father of the Tryna Lia—and those Nemerei of this world who are loyal to him intend to challenge Mandrake, and I must be with them. But it will take all the strength we can marshal to defeat him.”
“Wait a moment! I want to go too!” protested Jomar.
“So do I,” Damion added. “We’ve recovered from our injuries.”
“No, this battle is not for you, my friends,” Ana replied. “It cannot be fought with any weapons you possess. I am sorry, but I must ask you to remain here.”
With that, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving them to stare after her.
THE PALACE WAS EVEN more imposing when Ailia finally stood in front of it in the gathering twilight.
Had its tremendous gates not been flung wide in open invitation, she would never have dared to enter. She crossed the forecourt, noting the stables that stood to one side. Many splendid carriages were housed there: warm lamplight glanced along gilt and glass and fine wooden trim; from the stalls came the snorting and stamping of horses. But there was still not a human soul to be seen. Before her broad marble steps led to a grand entrance, the doors open wide as the gates had been.
It’s just like walking into one of my own stories, Ailia marveled as she went in.
The entrance hall was of white marble, and the ceiling was molded and gilded in circular patterns of floral designs and the shapes of beasts and birds. There was no one in sight, not a single guard or servant. She stood for a moment, deliberating. Two corridors led to the right and left, while straight ahead of her a magnificent staircase, lit by marble figures holding aloft giant candelabra, led up to a landing, then divided in two and rose to a second story. In the wall of the landing a huge window framed a view of towers and trees: a courtyard must lie beyond.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” she called out nervously. Her voice echoed from the walls and faded. Where could everyone be? I can’t believe everyone in such a grand palace would be away. Shouldn’t there at least be a maid or two about? Ailia, as unnerved by her prolonged solitude as by the grandeur of her surroundings, began to hunger for the sight of a human face.
She was not at all loath to go farther into the palace, however. She chose, at random, the left-hand corridor and hurried down it. Her footsteps sounded very loud in the silence, but still no one came to challenge her. Marble figures stared at her out of tall niches with white, vacant eyes. She thought she heard a distant music of stringed instruments, so faint and far off that she half wondered if she imagined it. The corridor led to a set of two gilded doors before turning to the right, and looking down its length she saw a series of steps leading up to another pair of doors. She decided to try the first set. Pushing one door open, she slipped inside and looked about her.
She was in a chapel, but a chapel many times larger than the Royal Academy’s. Its walls were white marble warmed by the light of many lamps, the ceiling was painted with clouds in a blue sky, and in the sanctuary there stood, not a portal with carved battlements or an image of the robed and bearded God Aan, but the statue of a blue-gowned woman on a rounded plinth. Her face was serene, its white stone features eternally young and untroubled, her gilded hair rippling to her feet. In her marble arms were garlands of real flowers; at the skirts of her gown images of children and fawning beasts; on her head gleamed a crown of stars. Elarainia, the Morning Star Goddess.
Where was this place? Could she be having a vision of the distant past, like Damion’s? But he had said he could not touch anything in his dream, while everything here felt real. She reached out, laid a hand on the nearest pew: its wood was hard and solid beneath her palm.
The chapel too was empty, neither priests nor worshippers to be seen. It contained only the hallowed hush found in sacred places, that seems to deepen when the occupant is alone. But the flowers in the statue’s arms were fresh, the lamps lit against the coming of night. Someone had been here, and recently.
She decided to go on up the hall and try the second set of doors. These too were open. A huge banquet hall stretched before her, with long rows of dark wooden tables and a dais at the far end. On it stood a high table with several chairs, including one tall majestic one that had the air of a throne. The hall was hung with banners and tapestries, its high windows were of tinted glass, and at this end was a minstrel’s gallery. On the tables were more cut flowers in vases, as well as bowls of every kind of fresh fruit, pineapples and pomegranates and jade-green grapes, and others that she did not recognize. There were spun-sugar follies shaped like castles and swans and sailing ships; and trays of rainbow-hued sweetmeats; and tall pitchers of jewel-colored cordials. As she gazed at them Ailia’s stomach cramped with hunger. It seemed a very long time since her last meal of soggy ship’s biscuit, but she dared not steal from any of the dishes. It’s exactly like a faerie tale. If I touch the food those great doors will be flung open behind me, and an ogre will come in—or a loathly Beast, or a Black Knight . . . She glanced back at the doors, half expecting to see some such faerie visitant appear even without provocation. But there was no one there.
And then the
music started again.
It was louder this time, and nearer. In the wall behind the dais, she noticed, was a half-open door, and through this the music drifted. Ailia advanced slowly toward the dais. This was one of those grand places that even when empty have a presence about them, so that one feels one must show respect. She hesitated before mounting the steps of the dais. But the music drew her on, with its yearning beauty and its promise of human company. If indeed those musicians were human. Peering around the door, she saw a stone staircase spiraling up. The music cascaded down it like a waterfall.
There must be another large room above this one, where some kind of revel was taking place. She hurried up the stairs. And oh, there were human voices now, she could hear them: the distant murmur of conversation! Ailia suppressed a near-hysterical cry of relief and longing as she raced up the stone flights. To see people again, any people—! The spiral stair was enclosed within a column of carved stone; at the landing a door opened out of the column, and small glass panels were set in it like windows. She stepped out of the doorway and found herself in a hall. At this end it vanished around a corner, while at the other it ended in a wall with a window. But halfway down another doorway opened on a large hall or chamber: and it was filled with people.
Ailia was suddenly smitten with shyness. It was such a very grand place, at least as large as the banquet hall below. She peered around the doorframe. The hall was opulent beyond belief, white with ornamentations of gold leaf. But just as impressive were the people currently occupying the chamber, standing about in whispering groups. They were arrayed in the finest fabrics: silk and brocade glistened wherever she looked. Arms and necks were adorned with precious gems, each glinting with its core of captive fire, so that all the hall seemed to dance and flicker with faerie lights of every imaginable hue. Yet the people themselves were the most magnificent of all: their features reminded her of the Elei statues in Liamar. Elei! she thought. They must be! There really are Elei left in the world . . .