At Winter's End

by Robert Silverberg

  Silence. Silence.

  The Queen says at length, “What is it, then, that you want?”

  “An end to the war. A truce between our peoples. A line drawn between Your lands and ours, never to be violated.”

  “These are your only terms?”

  “Our only terms, yes,” says Nialli Apuilana.

  “And the alternative?”

  “War to the death. With no quarter given.”

  “You deceive yourself if you think there can ever be peace between us,” says the Queen.

  “But there can be an absence of war.”

  There is one last silence. It seems to stretch on forever.

  “Yes,” replies the Queen finally. “There can be an absence of war. So be it. I grant you what you ask. There will be an absence of war.”

  It was done. Nialli Apuilana bade the Queen farewell, and in a single moment withdrew from the high realm, sweeping swiftly downward toward the breast of the land, where dawn now had begun to glow. She relinquished her grasp on the Barak Dayir and sat up. She was back in the tent that she shared with Thu-Kimnibol.

  He was just beginning to stir. He looked over at her and smiled.

  “How strange. I slept like a child, lost to the world. And I dreamed the war was over. That a truce had been agreed on between ourselves and the Queen.”

  “It was no dream,” said Nialli Apuilana.

  10

  The Queen of Springtime

  The day was bright and fair, with a cool pleasant wind blowing out of the west, a sea-breeze, always a good omen. Taniane arose early, and went to the Temple of the Five to express her gratitude for the safe return of the army and to ask the gods’ blessings for the time to come; and then, for she was the chieftain of all the people, she went also to the Temple of Nakhaba and made her obeisance to the god of the Bengs. Afterward she called for her wagon of state, with four fine white xlendis to draw it, and made ready to ride out to the Emakkis Gate at the northern end of the city, where a great reviewing stand had been erected so that the chieftain and the Presidium could properly greet the troops as they arrived. She had the Mask of Koshmar with her, the shining black one that she sometimes wore on high occasions of state. This day seemed worthy of Koshmar’s mask.

  Runners had been carrying word of the return for four days, now, stumbling breathless into the city with reports of the army’s southward progress. “They’re in Tik-haleret now!” came the cry, and almost at once, “They’ve reached Banarak,” and then, “No! They’re approaching Ghomino!” Thu-Kimnibol, the messengers said, rode proudly at the head of the column, with Nialli Apuilana beside him, and all the troops stretching on and on behind them as far as anyone could see.

  Thu-Kimnibol had sent messengers of his own ahead as well, announcing the truce that had brought the war to its end. From the messengers, too, came the first official word of the death of Hresh. Which only confirmed what Taniane already knew, for she had not felt the presence of Hresh in the world since that day of strange numbness when Puit Kjai had come to her with his tales of insurrection; but it was hard news all the same. King Salaman also was dead, they said, dead of grief and weariness, after a great loss at the hands of the hjjks.

  Taniane wondered what Hresh had been doing up there in hjjk country at the battlefront. That was the last place where she would have expected him to go. But evidently Hresh had remained Hresh to the very end, a law unto himself. Perhaps she would get the explanation of his mysterious final journey from Nialli Apuilana later.

  Old Staip, trembling and unsteady, stood to Taniane’s left as she took her position on the reviewing stand. Simthala Honginda and Catiriil were beside him. Puit Kjai was at her right, and Chomrik Hamadel next to him, both of them grandly helmeted. Before them, occupying the outer rim of the stand’s lower level, was an array of city guardsmen led by Chevkija Aim.

  One by one the other members of the Presidium mounted the stand. Taniane greeted them as they appeared. A crowd was gathering below.

  Puit Kjai leaned his head toward hers and said quietly, “Be on your guard, lady. I think your enemies may well choose this day to make trouble.”

  “Have you any proof of that?”

  “Whisperings, only.”

  Taniane shrugged. “Whisperings!”

  “Such whisperings very often carry truth, lady.”

  She pointed into the distance, where she thought she saw a far-off cloud of gray dust rising over the highway. “In a little while Thu-Kimnibol will be here,” she said. “And my daughter, and an army of their loyal followers. No one’s going to dare to make trouble with a force like that heading this way.”

  “Be on your guard all the same.”

  “I’m always on my guard,” Taniane said, running her fingers uneasily over the smooth shining surface of Koshmar’s mask. She glanced around. “Husathirn Mueri isn’t here. He’s the only one. Why is that?”

  “I think he’s likely to get very little joy from Thu-Kimnibol’s triumphant return.”

  “He’s a prince of the Presidium, all the same. His place is here among us.” She turned and beckoned to Catiriil. “Your brother!” she called sharply. “Where is he?”

  “He said he’d be going to his chapel first. But he’ll be here in time. I’m sure that he will.”

  “He’d better be,” Taniane said.

  Husathirn Mueri had risen early that day also. It had been a long night for him, fitful rest at best, and he was glad enough to leave his bed at dawn. His dreams, when he’d been able to sleep at all, had been oppressive ones: chanting hjjk warriors filing round and round him in the darkness and the Queen’s crushing bulk, monstrous and bloated and pale, hovering over him like a titanic weight slowly falling from the sky.

  The early service was already under way at the chapel when he arrived. Tikharein Tourb was presiding, with Chhia Kreun beside him at the altar. Husathirn Mueri slipped into the seat at the rear that he usually occupied. Chevkija Aim, deep in his devotions, gave him a perfunctory nod. The others nearby took no notice. By now it was no extraordinary thing to have a prince of the city present in a chapel.

  “This is the day of revelation,” the boy-priest was saying. “This is the day when the seals are broken and the book is opened, and the secrets are brought forth, and the depths give up their mystery. This is the day of the Queen; and She is our comfort and our joy.”

  “She is our comfort and our joy,” the congregation replied automatically, and Husathirn Mueri said it with them.

  “She is the light and the way,” cried Tikharein Tourb, making hjjk-clicks as he spoke, and the congregation, clicking in response, echoed his words.

  “She is the essence and the substance.”

  “She is the essence and the substance.”

  “She is the beginning and the end.”

  “She is the beginning and the end.”

  Chhia Kreun brought green boughs forward, and Tikharein Tourb held them aloft.

  “This is the day, dear friends, when the will of the Queen is made known. This is the day when Her love will be made manifest upon us all. This is the day when the dragon devours the dark stars, and brightness is reborn. And She will be among us; and She is our comfort and our joy.”

  “She is our comfort and our joy.”

  “She is the light and the way—”

  Husathirn Mueri responded with the others, dutifully repeating the phrases when he heard the cues; but the words were no more than empty formulas for him today. Perhaps they had never been more than that. This supposed religious conversion of his: he’d never fully understood it himself. Somehow he’d tricked himself into thinking he felt a glimmer of something greater than himself, something he could lose himself in. That must have been it. In any event his mind and soul were elsewhere now. He could think of nothing but Thu-Kimnibol, riding in glory through the farmlands north of the city, coming back from the war with some sort of victory to proclaim.

  Victory? What had he done? Beaten the hjjks? Slain the Queen?
None of that seemed remotely possible. Yet the word had preceded him: the war was over, peace had been achieved. By the heroic efforts of Thu-Kimnibol and Nialli Apuilana, and so forth and so forth—

  That galled Husathirn Mueri more than anything: that by some strange trick of fate the unattainable Nialli Apuilana had been taken in mating by her own father’s half-brother, the man Husathirn Mueri most loathed in all of Dawinno. He choked on the thought of that mating. Her sleek silken body against his huge coarse bulk. His hands on her thighs, her breasts. Their sensing-organs touching in the most intimate of—

  No. Stop it.

  He ordered himself not to think about them. All he was achieving was self-torture and despair. He fought to regain his inner equilibrium. But however he struggled to calm himself, no calmness would come. His mind was aswirl. Bad enough to have given herself to the hjjk ambassador, but then to go from Kundalimon to Thu-Kimnibol—! It was unthinkable. It was monstrous. That great lumbering vimbor. And her own kinsman, too.

  Husathirn Mueri closed his eyes and tried to let thoughts of the Queen, the all-loving benevolent Queen, drive these tormenting visions of Nialli and Thu-Kimnibol from his mind. But there was no way he could pay attention to what the boy-priest was saying. Only empty noise, that was what it seemed like now. Hollow mumblings, weird magical nonsense.

  Perhaps I never believed any of this, he thought. Love the Queen? What kind of madness is that, anyway?

  What if I’ve been coming here only out of some sort of feeling of guilt? An expiation, perhaps, for what I did to Kundalimon?

  The thought startled him. Could it be? He began to tremble.

  Then Chevkija Aim leaned over and murmured, “Tikharein Tourb wants you to stay after the service.”

  Husathirn Mueri blinked and looked up. “What for?”

  The guard-captain offered only a shrug. “He didn’t say. But we aren’t supposed to take part in the twining when the service ends. We’re just supposed to wait.”

  “She is the essence and the substance,” Tikharein Tourb called out.

  “She is the essence and the substance,” the congregation replied. Husathirn Mueri forced himself to bellow forth the response with them.

  He felt a little calmer now. Chevkija Aim, breaking in on him like that, had managed to pull him back from his feverish brooding. But he fidgeted as the string of litanies went on and on. He was due at the welcoming ceremony in a little while: the whole Presidium had to be there to hail the returning heroes. Much as he loathed the idea, he didn’t dare stay away, or it would seem he was too embittered to attend, and that would create trouble for him. But if Tikharein Tourb didn’t hurry it up—

  At last, though, the service was over, ending with the usual mass twinings. The faithful, when the intensity of their communions had lifted from them, filed silently out of the hall.

  Husathirn Mueri and Chevkija Aim rose and went to the altar, where Tikharein Tourb waited for them.

  The boy’s eyes seemed more fiery even than usual today. His fur bristled with tension.

  “It is just as I said in the service,” he told Husathirn Mueri. “This is the day of the breaking of the seals. This is the day of the Queen. And you two are to be Her instruments.”

  Husathirn Mueri frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “The prince Thu-Kimnibol has brought shame upon the Queen. His life is already forfeit for the slaying of the holy Kundalimon; but now also he has intruded on the sanctity of the Nest of Nests and attempted to impose his will on Hers. For these and many other misdeeds the Queen has pronounced sentence of death on him, which you will carry out this day, Husathirn Mueri.”

  His breath left him as though he had been punched.

  “You will strike him to the heart when he comes forth to be acclaimed. And you, Chevkija Aim—you will strike down Taniane in the same moment.”

  It was impossible to believe that this little demon was only a boy of ten or twelve.

  “On the reviewing stand?” Husathirn Mueri said, astounded.

  “In full view of everyone, yes. It will be the signal. The people then will rise up and slay the rest of the highborn ones before they can comprehend what is happening to them. The entire ruling caste must go, all the oppressors, all the enemies of the Queen—Staip, Chomrik Hamadel, Puit Kjai, Nialli Apuilana, all of them. In one quick moment. You alone will remain of all the Presidium, Husathirn Mueri.” Tikharein Tourb grinned savagely. “In the new order of things you will become Nest-king here. Chevkija Aim will be Nest-warden.”

  “Nest-king?” Husathirn Mueri repeated dully. “I’ll become Nest-king?”

  “That is how we will call the worldly ruler, yes. And his chief of staff will be Nest-warden. And I,” said Tikharein Tourb, “will be your Nest-thinker, the voice of the Queen in the city called Dawinno.” He laughed. “In the new order of things. Which you two will serve to bring into being, this very day.”

  Husathirn Mueri said, as they left the chapel, “You go on ahead. I need to change into my official robes.”

  Chevkija Aim nodded. “I’ll see you on the reviewing stand, then.”

  “Yes.” Reaching out, Husathirn Mueri caught Chevkija by the wrist and held him a moment. “One thing. Despite what Tikharein Tourb said just now, I want you to understand this: Nialli Apuilana is to be spared.”

  “But Tikharein Tourb specifically wants—”

  “I don’t give a gorynth’s toenail for what he specifically wants. The whole crew of them can be slaughtered, for all I care. I’ll be glad to wield the knife myself. But she lives. Is that understood, Chevkija Aim? If she turns out to be difficult afterward, she can always be killed then. But she’s not to be touched when the killing starts. Have your guardsmen protect her. Or, by the Five, I’ll see to it that any harm that comes to her is repaid fifty times over. Is that understood, Chevkija Aim?”

  It seemed to Thu-Kimnibol that the entire population of the city had turned out to greet his homecoming warriors. They had built a huge wooden stand right in front of Emakkis Gate, big enough to hold all the members of the Presidium and many others besides. And all around it were hundreds, thousands, of citizens, a gigantic horde of them, just about everyone in Dawinno who hadn’t gone off to the war.

  His hand tightened on Nialli Apuilana’s arm. “There’s Taniane up there, do you see? And Staip, and Chomrik Hamadel, and that’s Puit Kjai, I suppose, in the enormous helmet—”

  “Simthala Honginda and Catiriil, too, over there on the right, with Staip. And isn’t that Husathirn Mueri? I can hardly make him out, with that guardsman blocking the view, but those bright white stripes, that black fur—it has to be him.”

  “So it is. I think he’ll be wearing a long face today.”

  “Where’s Boldirinthe? She’s not there, is she?”

  “We’d see her if she were. But it would be a job, hauling her up on top of that platform.”

  “If she’s still alive at all.”

  “Do you think—”

  “She was old. She was ill.”

  “I pray that it’s not so,” Thu-Kimnibol said. But in his heart he suspected that Nialli Apuilana was right. This had been a season for the falling away of the great old ones.

  A helmeted figure on a noble-looking gray xlendi came riding out toward them now, carrying the banner of the city. Thu-Kimnibol recognized him after a moment as the young highborn warrior Pelithhrouk, Simthala Honginda’s protégé, who had been in his entourage during the embassy to King Salaman, what seemed like a million years ago. The memory drifted back to him now of the time Dumanka had killed and roasted the caviandis, and Pelithhrouk had spoken out so idealistically on the theme of the oneness of all intelligent creatures. To have Pelithhrouk, one of those who had argued most strongly for peace, ride out now as the official bearer of welcome was a good sign for the reconciliation that must now be brought about.

  Pelithhrouk dismounted and looked up toward them.

  “The chieftain sends her greetings. She bids me to escort
you to the place of honor.”

  Thu-Kimnibol nodded to Nialli Apuilana. Together they stepped down from their wagon. Pelithhrouk smiled and spread his arms wide, and solemnly embraced them, Thu-Kimnibol first, then Nialli Apuilana, in a formal gesture of salute.

  “What a fine day this is,” Thu-Kimnibol murmured, as they followed Pelithhrouk toward the reviewing stand. Guardsmen kept the crowds back on either side. Banners fluttered everywhere. The sun, bright and warm, was high overhead. As they started up the steps to the platform above Nialli Apuilana reached out for Thu-Kimnibol’s hand. They interlaced their fingers.

  A row of guardsmen waited there. Behind them were Taniane and all the city’s notables in formal array. Time had dealt with them in a heavy way. The chieftain seemed no more than a gray ember of herself now, and Staip looked withered and ancient beyond belief, and the others too had aged startlingly, Puit Kjai, Chomrik Hamadel, Lespar Thone. Thu-Kimnibol wondered how he must look to them, after the long months of marching through distant bleak lands, the battles, the wounds he had taken.

  But his mood was buoyant despite all that. The battles were done for now; he was returning with victory. And more than that. Often in days gone by he had felt himself oppressed by the great weight of the world’s past, the vastness of it. Now, though, what he sensed was the exhilarating vastness of the future: its infinite possibilities, more to come than lay behind, world without end, many difficulties, many triumphs, many wonders not yet dreamed of, never imagined even in the greatest eras of the past. The world might be ancient but also it was ever new and young. The best was still to come.

  He reached the top of the platform and halted there, facing the great ones of the city.

  There was a moment when everyone stood utterly still, frozen in a solemn ceremonial tableau. Thu-Kimnibol, still holding Nialli Apuilana’s hand, bowed his head toward them all. Were they waiting for him to speak first? Surely the first word belonged to the chieftain. He remained silent. Taniane held the burnished, gleaming Mask of Koshmar in her hands. She appeared to be about to don it. No one else moved.