Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2)

by David Farland

The Tekkar guard crumpled in ruin, and Ceravanne screamed in horror at the sight. Time seemed to slow.

  Gallen cried out, and the gun fell from his hand as the Inhuman regained control. Suddenly Gallen dropped back to one knee.

  Orick stopped halfway to the Harvester’s throne as the second guard rushed forward, swinging his sword in complex arcs.

  The Harvester merely stood, watching them all, and Ceravanne studied her every tiny gesture, every seemingly unconscious movement of the eyes. The Harvester had not cried out at the horrible sight of her guard, crumpling in ruin. The image of it had struck Ceravanne to the very core, but the Harvester was merely watching. And suddenly Ceravanne felt very uneasy. She had come here imagining that she and the Harvester were one, single organisms that had branched out on different paths. But now she wondered just how far they might have diverged. The Harvester stood rigid, trembling, but the murder of a man before her eyes had not seemed to cause her undue discomfort.

  Ceravanne knew that the Inhuman planted memories from the lives of warriors in its victims, but now she wondered what that would be like, wondered how the horror of committing such atrocities would leave their mark on the Harvester.

  In ages past, Ceravanne had turned her back on the Rodim, let their kind be slaughtered, removed from the face of the earth. It had not been a sin of commission. She had killed no one herself, had never even seen a Rodim die. But she forced herself to remain silent as the slaughter began. It had taken all of her will, sapped her strength, left her unable to sleep for thousands of nights afterward. She could not imagine ever committing a crime more horrible than what she had done.

  But the Harvester stood before her, and she bore memories of war, of her own hands bathed in another’s blood. Somehow, Ceravanne had imagined that the Harvester would be able to disassociate herself from such memories, to recognize that she had never committed such atrocities.

  But Ceravanne knew better than that. The peoples of Babel had been created because of the Tharrin’s inaction, their unwillingness to control mankind. If the Tharrin asserted more control, they could end this madness. Human misery was the gauge of Tharrin inadequacy.

  And so Ceravanne felt the stain of blood upon her, the stain of blood for every man who had ever died under the sword, the guilt of every good man who was forced to kill in order to defend himself. The stain was always there. Ceravanne could feel her conscience whispering to her, though she tried to block it from her mind.

  But how much more horrible would it be to have the Inhuman show her true waste and destruction, to live through the horrors of becoming a killer, to suffer the atrocities committed by others? How could Ceravanne bear it, if the Inhuman were to show her the misery her people suffered? How could the Harvester even bear to stand, to breathe, to speak while under the weight of such guilt. It was not the lies that the Inhuman told that so much bothered Ceravanne, it was the threat of all the damning truths. How could anyone bear it?

  Indeed, the Harvester only stood gazing at the room, and the muscles at her mouth twitched. She drew weak, rapid breaths, and her eyes gazed around in bewilderment.

  The Harvester was struggling for control, struggling against the Inhuman.

  Gallen climbed to his feet, turned and looked at Ceravanne. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and slowly, as if fighting a great battle with himself, he whispered, “Leave us!”

  “Gallen?” Orick said, gazing deep into his eyes. “Are you in there?”

  Gallen said nothing intelligible, but his voice gurgled. And Ceravanne looked at Gallen’s mantle on the floor, realized that his mantle was still fighting, trying to block the Inhuman’s signals, just as Gallen was still struggling against it.

  Ceravanne stepped forward. The Tekkar guard swung his sword menacingly, still blocking the path, and though the guard would not let Orick pass, Ceravanne suspected that she herself might have a better chance of reaching the Harvester.

  Ceravanne crossed the room, pulled back her hood, and the Tekkar stood looking at her in her splendor. She hesitated for a moment, waiting for her scent to fill the air around her, so that her powerful pheromones would have time to work on the Tekkar. By nature, Ceravanne was aware of subtle forms of manipulation. Tone of voice, gestures, scent—all worked together to create a mood.

  The Tekkar stopped swinging his sword, considering, and Ceravanne watched his purple eyes. There was a hint of widening, as if the Tekkar were surprised by her lack of fear, but his eyes did not stare beyond her, losing their focus, as so often happens when one is planning to kill. Ceravanne held her hands together and hunched her shoulders, making herself seem smaller. It was a pose that spoke at once of unconscious authority and vulnerability. Her beauty and scent confused the Tekkar with a sensual aura. Ceravanne had called mortal enemies together and got them forging alliances within minutes, yet even after thousands of years of experience, she could not be sure that her persuasive powers would work on the Tekkar.

  “Let me pass,” Ceravanne said softly, as if reminding him that she had the perfect right to command. “I will not harm you, and I do not believe you wish to harm me. There has been too much violence already.”

  The Tekkar’s lips parted and he looked back to the Harvester in confusion, and in that moment of hesitation, Ceravanne crossed the room, stood at Gallen’s side, rested her hand on his shoulder, and looked up into the face of the Harvester. There was sweat running down the woman’s forehead, and she held her jaw clenched, trembling. “Fight it,” Ceravanne whispered vehemently to both Gallen and the Harvester.

  “Fight with your whole souls.” Ceravanne stepped toward her, and the Harvester reached for the knife on her hip.

  “Please, not one more life!” the Bock said, holding its arms high. “I beg of the Ceravanne who once was, do not let this Inhuman force you into taking one more life!”

  The Harvester stood, and beads of sweat began dotting her forehead. “I can’t … stop it. I can’t hold … it!”

  Ceravanne pulled back her hood, exposing her own mantle. “Yes you can, for a moment, at great cost. And in that moment, you are free. I’ve spoken with those technicians who designed the Inhuman,” she whispered. “The memories it shows you are flawed, and all of its conclusions are lies. You are not responsible for the sum of human misery. I’ve come to bring you truth. Put on this mantle, and let it teach you peace. It will free you.”

  She began walking slowly toward the Harvester, who looked toward the exits. Ceravanne feared that she would jump and flee down one of those corridors. The Tekkar guard moved uneasily, as if to intercept Ceravanne, and the Bock hurried toward the throne.

  The Harvester raised her hands, as if to ward Ceravanne away. “No,” she whispered. “Leave now! I do not want to hurt you!”

  “And I do not want to hurt you,” Ceravanne said softly, all feigned vocal tones aside. The Harvester would know if she lied.

  The Tekkar guard moved to intercept the Bock, and the Harvester cried, “Stop him!” The Bock stopped beside Orick, unable to advance farther.

  The Harvester pulled her dagger from her hip sheath, and its shining curved blade gleamed wickedly. Ceravanne recalled how deeply it had bit into her in the past, the cold poison at its tip. “I have killed myself before,” the Harvester whispered.

  “Yes, to avoid being infected by the Inhuman,” Ceravanne answered sadly, realizing that her sister-self was planning suicide. “The Swallow has returned to her ancient land of Indallian. She came to bring peace and unite her people. But you’re infected by that which we both fear. If this is all you can do to save us, then do what you must. I forgive you.”

  And Ceravanne saw the pain on the Harvester’s face as her muscles worked against her. She marveled at the Harvester’s struggle for control, for few could hope to fight the domination of a machine designed to manipulate the human will, and Ceravanne knew that the Harvester must have been fighting the Inhuman’s control for months.

  “Forgive me and die,” the Harvester said, and she l
eapt at Ceravanne. In that brief instant, Ceravanne saw her mistake.

  The Tharrin compunction against taking a human life was nearly unbreakable, but it did not extend to self, and the Harvester viewed Ceravanne as self. And in that instant, Ceravanne saw that the Harvester was relinquishing control. She could not have moved so swiftly otherwise. Indeed, for that brief moment, she was the Inhuman.

  And a sudden shocking urge welled up inside Ceravanne. For one moment, she wished the Harvester dead. She wanted to hide the ugliness of what she had become from the world. Expunge it. Make it as if it had never been. While humans feared most the death of the body, Ceravanne feared more for the death of her soul, and she wanted now to unmake the thing she had become.

  “No!” the Bock shouted, rushing toward them.

  Ceravanne grasped the Harvester’s hand as her knife plunged downward. And for a moment they struggled, fighting for control of the knife. The Harvester’s face was a mask of determination and rage, the face of a stranger. Ceravanne turned and kicked at the older woman’s legs, trying to unbalance her, and very nearly succeeded in driving the knife into the Harvester’s neck.

  The Harvester cried out for aid, and her guard spun and rushed toward her. Ceravanne saw Orick leap in behind the guard, catch the Tekkar’s rear leg in his teeth, and shake the man vigorously. With a mighty heave of his neck, Orick threw the Tekkar against the near wall, and bones snapped.

  The Bock lunged forward past Orick, trying to throw himself between the women. With his long fingers, he grabbed for the knife as it arced toward Ceravanne a second time, reaching up. The knife pierced his hand, driving deeply along the outside of his palm. Bright blood spattered over his arm, and he backed away from the Harvester.

  “She’s … innocent! You’re both innocent!” the Bock cried. The Harvester stared at the Bock, eyes wide, and staggered backward, running from her deed.

  Ceravanne stood, watching the doomed Bock collapse at her feet. “Ah,” he muttered courageously, making a show as if the wound were a scratch, backing away. “I …” Confusion crossed his face, and he sat down heavily, his many knees buckling. “What?”

  “I’ve killed you,” the Harvester cried, as if the words were torn from her throat.

  Ceravanne felt her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, but she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees beside the Bock, hoping to comfort him.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and the Bock looked up at her incredulous. “How? No, it’s a small wound!”

  “With the juice of deathfruit in it,” the Harvester whispered.

  The Bock fell back, gasping, and looked up.

  And in that second, the Harvester dropped her knife to the floor. Ceravanne stood there stunned, holding the Bock, as the Harvester cried out from the core of her soul, and the cry seemed to echo from some recess in Ceravanne’s mind. It was a scream that was unlike anything she had ever heard—almost bestial.

  The Bock looked up, and his brown eyes did not focus. He stared blindly at the ceiling. “Wha … gulls crying?” Ceravanne knelt, her heart pounding, blinded by tears. The Bock looked up and said, “Ah, the cry of a child as it dies into an adult.”

  Then his voice rattled, and he went still.

  The ground twisted beneath her, and Ceravanne fell forward, still weeping.

  Ceravanne had come hoping to find common ground with the Harvester. She’d known that somewhere, despite the Inhuman’s manipulations, its distortions and outright lies, there had to be some core, some essential, unchanging element, that would remain the same in them.

  And as the Bock died, the one man both Ceravanne and the Harvester had loved most in this life, the Harvester was touched deep in her soul, in a place where the Inhuman could not enter.

  The Harvester crawled on her knees toward the Bock. Then Ceravanne grabbed the mantle of the Inhuman, pulled off the gold clip that her technicians had told her would be its key, and laid the Inhuman over the Bock’s face like a burial shroud.

  Suddenly freed from the Inhuman’s influence, Gallen leapt up, came to Ceravanne’s side and held her a moment. Ceravanne was trying to snap the key onto a corner of her own mantle, but her hands were shaking too badly. So Gallen took the key from her hands.

  From one of the side doors, Ceravanne could hear shouting as several of the Tekkar tried to clear rubble, gain entrance to the great hall. “Quickly, put the key on my mantle,” Ceravanne whispered, “if you love truth, if you seek rest.”

  Gallen took Ceravanne’s mantle from her, placed its golden net over his own head. Then he sat down, arms wrapped around his knees, snapped the key onto the mantle’s golden rings, and lived another hundred lifetimes.

  For nearly two hours, Ceravanne sat with Orick. The Bock’s body cooled, and Ceravanne cleaned it up, weeping softly. She could not keep from touching him, and for a long hour after the body was cleaned, Orick nuzzled her, pressing his nose under her arm.

  Orick could not believe how badly the day had gone. Gallen had not been able to fight the Inhuman, and Maggie was dead. Both Ceravanne and the Harvester had lost the man they loved, and the city of Moree was in ruins. Orick had hoped for much better, and it left a great gaping hole in his heart, to see all the pain that others would have to endure.

  He kept looking over at Gallen, who sat with his arms wrapped about his knees, his forehead bowed to one knee, with the great golden mantle draped over his head and shoulders, wearing a look as if he were some philosopher, exhausted from profound thought. And in a way, Orick feared that. The teaching machines on Fale had changed him some. The Inhuman had sought to rip away his free will. And now, he would waken and be something new.

  Everyone Orick loved most was being taken from him.

  He had begun to fear that terrible light that was growing in Gallen’s pale eyes. Now he felt it keenest. A few short weeks ago, Gallen had been little more than a boy who had to cope with his incredible talent for battle and his desire to set the world right. Now, he was growing into something new, something unpredictable.

  So Orick sat and thought, trying to comfort Ceravanne. Orick remembered that when the Lady Everynne had connected with the omni-mind, she’d wakened after the initial shock, and she’d become something powerful—a goddess, with nearly unlimited knowledge. In his own smaller way, Orick knew, Gallen was doing the same, step by step. The light was steadily growing in his eyes, and Orick could see what he was becoming, could see how he was leaving ordinary men behind, leaving Orick behind.

  When Ceravanne’s tears had eased some, Orick asked gently, “When Gallen wakes, how will he be changed? What will he become?”

  “The demons inside him should never bother him again,” Ceravanne whispered. “We didn’t alter the memories much, just restored the true versions, so that Gallen may see upon reflection our judges were not harsh. When Gallen wakes, everyone will know that I’ve returned to make peace among the peoples. Some may resent me for it. Some may still hold allegiance to the Inhuman, but we’ve removed the hidden thought structures that the Inhuman inserted into its hosts. People will be free to make up their own minds.”

  Ceravanne sat, her arms wrapped around her Bock. “And what of those who do resent you?” Orick asked. “What if some of the Tekkar try to kill you?”

  “I suspect that they will,” Ceravanne said. “I’ve been killed before, but always I’ve been reborn. Still, such actions anger the faithful. The Rodim were destroyed as a people for such acts. The Tekkar know what will happen to them if they are too harsh.”

  Orick licked Ceravanne’s hand, and together they waited for the awakening.

  * * *

  Chapter 32

  In the recesses of his mind, Gallen lived through the days of Druin after the fall of Indallian. He rode his huge war-horse through the forests in his youth, and suffered the pangs of lost loves, he fought many battles and learned to crave blood as much as he craved the wider world. He united many people, before he was crippled by a spear in the back.

  As an old
man, he became frustrated in his designs. Many admired him as a man of learning, for he could do little more than lie in his bed and study. He became devoted to the welfare of his people, yet he dreamed of walking again, of visiting the stars.

  He learned to hate the walls of his bedchamber, and so he sent messengers to the City of Life and hired travelers from other worlds to come and be his tutors. He began acquiring metals to build his starships, and studied the designs.

  When word reached him that the Immortals planned to stop him, he built cannons to guard his city, and great were the battles waged against him, until in ruin he was forced to put aside his weapons.

  In old age, his men took him to the City of Life, and there sought the rebirth. And the judges found him unworthy. Still, they took pity on him, and gave him back his legs, sending him away. He took his gift, but turned and cursed his judges.

  Thus Druin wandered far, and never visited his realm again. So it went, life after life, Gallen saw the portion of meanness in character that the Dronon had chosen to hide.

  And then Ceravanne’s mantle showed Gallen other lives, the lives lived by some of those who had won the rebirth—Tottenan the Wise, from the race of the Atonkin, who felt no desire to dominate other peoples. He spent his days buying old swords and melting the steel to be used in building nails.

  And Gallen recalled the life of Zemette, a shipbuilder of weak mind but great heart, a man who somehow understood by nature how to be happy, who used all of his money to buy slaves from the southlands, so that he could set them free.

  And Gallen lived the life of Thrennen Ka, a Derrit who sought to teach farming to her own people.

  Over and over, the lives came to him, and he was shown an equal portion of the divine and the damned. And while the dronon whispered to him that all men were equal, and therefore should serve their new dronon overlords, Gallen saw that all men were given time to make of themselves what they would, and that while some became vile, and others merely consumed, always there were a few who earnestly strove to make the world better for all, and such people were rewarded in the City of Life. And thus Ceravanne’s mantle sought to make Gallen a wiser man, full of hope and experience, and then it left him.