by Tad Williams
“The whole of its name was ‘The Crossroad of Time,’ ” he said. And with that still hanging in the air, he rode toward it. I followed more slowly.
Moss clung to the dome’s pearly stone in many places, and grasses and other greenery had crept far up its sides. I thought I could now sense what my master had meant by the place being alive, and it frightened me. I could feel it in the way someone lying in the sun might feel a shadow cross his body, but this shadow fell on me and remained. If Hakatri felt anything like that, though, it did not slow him. He dismounted and passed swiftly through the empty socket where the doors had once stood. I still hesitated just outside the entrance, watching as my master continued to the shadowed center of the low, round central chamber, still holding his Witness. After a moment Hakatri sank to his knees, lifted the mirror in his upturned palms as if he had scooped a drink of water out of a stream, then bent to look into it.
Suddenly full of alarm, I hurried across the uneven tiled floor to his side, but he gestured for me to stay back.
“As I said, I do not know what will happen.” He was staring into his Witness, which already seemed alive with shimmering light. “Do not come too close, Pamon, and in no circumstance should you touch me. I do not want you harmed by any of this.”
Despite my growing fear, I almost laughed in pained surprise at his words. My lord did not want me harmed! As if his great suffering had not harmed me already, simply because I loved him. And now Hakatri’s visions had even begun to spill over into my own dreams, burning me without ever leaving a mark, terrifying me with things I could not understand. It was far too late to save me from harm.
“Why have I been called here?” Hakatri asked as he stared into the Witness. “Who calls me? Do you offer a cure? Or another curse?”
And then, as I looked on, an even more curious thing happened. The distant walls of the domed Crossroad seemed to shrink inward around me. My view grew narrower and narrower, darkness pushing in on all sides, but I guessed I must be seeing with Hakatri’s eyes instead of my own, because the gleaming circle of the Witness grew before me until I could make out nothing else. The reflection was like a cloudy sky at midday, full of roiling gray, with beams of light here and there piercing the murk for a moment before disappearing again. Then, suddenly, I fell forward into that whirl of shine and shadow.
A small figure gradually formed out of the chaos, cloaked, hooded, but also tenuous as smoke. I could make out little of the face, but it spoke with what sounded like a woman’s voice.
Finally, through all the years, I have found you. I heard her not with my ears but in my thoughts.
Are you the one who called me here? The voiceless reply seemed to come from me, but the words were my master’s, not my own. I could feel Hakatri’s pain now as I sometimes did in my dreams. It grew worse by the moment and made it hard for me to listen and to understand.
No, the voice told him—told us. Something greater and subtler than I am has drawn you here. But I have gambled much that you would answer the call. The hour has come. Not here, not now, and not for you, but for everything else. All is balanced, but in a mere moment that balance will tip.
But why have I been summoned? my master asked. Will you tell me? Is there some reason for my suffering after all?
The dim figure made a gesture of negation. Do not ask questions, I beg you. Our moment is short. You are the One Who Burns. That is the truth, and it is beyond me to change it. I cannot bring you surcease of pain, Hakatri i-Sa’onserei, or even explanation. Suffering simply is. It is what happens despite it that matters.
Growing dread clawed at my thoughts, or at my master’s thoughts—it was impossible to tell—threatening to tear them into rags. The Kosa’ajika or the Witness or both seemed to be making the pain worse. That means nothing! This torment is all I know!
There is no help for that. Be silent. Please. The female voice balanced both sorrow and impatience.
I felt my master’s sudden despair—we would find no help here for our suffering. Speak, then, he said—I said. Speak and be cursed.
That is entirely possible. The pale figure spread its arms and began to smolder, like a coal blown back into life, and the darkness narrowed around it. I bring you no prophecy, but a memory that has not yet come to be. There will come a moment when only you, Hakatri of the Year-Dancers, stand between life and darkness. In that moment, you must remember this, and you will have to choose.
Choose? What choice do you mean?
There are no words I can give you to help you understand. The choice has not yet been offered. It may never be offered. But when it is—and somewhere, sometime, it must be, it will be—you must remember this moment. Choose carefully. And now my time is over.
But wait, I still do not understand! My master’s thoughts were desperate, confused. Choose what? And who are you?
Who I am is not important. The smoldering light was beginning to dim. You will know me when we meet again. If we meet again. The light guttered like a candle in a strong breeze. When we meet again . . .
No! Come back! Do not leave me with so little—!
Those are the last words I remember.
* * *
• • •
I struggled up at last from a deeper blackness than I think I have ever known. I lay sprawled on the Crossroad flagstones, staring at the dome above my head; the cracks between its stones gleamed with sunshine as bright as lightning. For several breathless moments I simply remained there, confused, heart speeding. Then I thought of my master and clambered to my feet.
Hakatri lay stretched on the uneven floor a short distance away from me, face down and motionless. Terrified, I did my best to rouse him, but except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest he seemed lifeless and his skin was cold. His Witness, which had fallen to the tiles, felt no warmer or livelier when I picked it up.
No matter how I tried I could not rouse my master back to wakefulness, and at last I put my arms around his chest and pulled him, his feet dragging, toward the empty doorway and out into the fading afternoon sunlight. I managed, with an effort I did not think myself capable of, to heave him up at last and drape him over the saddle of his restive horse. My own head felt like a drum that had been beaten and beaten until the stretched skin had split, and I could think only of getting Hakatri away from that place.
As I rode down the winding track from the hilltop, leading my master’s horse and its insensible burden, I was terrified that those moments in the Crossroad of Time, fearful as they had been for me, might have dealt Hakatri some mortal blow. I needed to find help for him as quickly as possible, but Asu’a was several days’ ride away. When our horses’ hooves finally touched the waters of the lake around Sesuad’ra’s foot, I turned east toward Enki-e-Shao’saye instead, which was only a few hours distant. Evening had now fallen; I would have to ride in the dark. The grassland along the edge of Oldheart was a dangerous place, stalked by wolves, bears, and mortal bandits, and the forest itself was home to other dangers, but I dared not waste time waiting for the safety of sunlight.
I had a dark and uneasy night’s ride. I had to stop frequently to push my master back into place so he would not slide off the saddle, and I was no longer riding one of our sure-footed, clear-seeing Zida’ya mounts. Our progress seemed achingly slow, and my only moment of relief happened near middle-night, when I heard my master groan. He did not wake, but at least I knew he still lived.
The short ride seemed to last for days, not hours, but at last the ancient city appeared out of the forest shadows, its walls agleam with lamps. A small company rode out of the gate to meet us, most carrying torches. In those days the Summer City did not receive many visitors, so even in darkness we had been spotted from a great distance. When the riders were upon us I recognized Minasao Redwing as the leader of the welcoming procession—or at least I hoped that was what it was—by his famed helmet with its wide-spread wings, a
nd his hair, dyed the purple of flowering betony. Minasao is the Protector of Enki-e-Shao’saye, child of the city’s chief celebrant, Lady Sonayattu, both of whom are among Year-Dancing House’s most trusted allies.
“Hail, stranger,” he called as we approached. “Are you friend or foe to the Summer City, and who do you carry? Is he dead or wounded?”
“I bring Lord Hakatri of Asu’a. He is alive, but he sorely needs a healer.” I spoke more straightforwardly than I might have in other circumstances. Nursing Hakatri for so many moons had made me impatient of polite ceremony, especially when it kept my master from help. As I expected, Minasao and the other riders looked at me with surprise, only realizing at that moment that Hakatri’s companion was a Tinukeda’ya servant—and an over-bold servant at that.
“That is Hakatri of the Sa’onserei?” the Protector asked. “Have you two been attacked?”
“You will have heard that my master slew the black dragon Hidohebhi,” I said, “and likely that he was badly scalded with the dragon’s blood as well. He has been in search of healing and pain-ease ever since. We climbed high Sesuad’ra at my Lord Hakatri’s insistence. When he used his Witness in the place he called the Crossroad, some dire force I do not understand struck him down. Helping him was beyond my skills, so I brought him here.”
Minasao Redwing showed his good sense immediately: he bade one of his followers mount behind my master and hold him safe in the saddle, then he sent another back to Enki-e-Shao’saye in haste to prepare a bed for my master and to summon healers. “Can he speak?” Minasao asked me.
“He has said nothing at all since Sesuad’ra. He walked the most frightening parts of the Dream Road nearly every night as we crossed the Whisperwaste, and his dreams were always strange and terrible. I do not think he had much strength left even before we climbed to the top of the great stone.”
Minasao looked puzzled. “I knew he had left Asu’a some time ago, but has he—have you—truly traveled so far?”
“I could not tell you how far, my lord—our road was long and anything but straight. I have stayed at his side these many moons, doing my best to keep him alive and as comfortable as I could.” I leaned closer. “I am weary too, Lord Protector, but I promise that if you wait until we have found my master a place to lie down, I will answer all your questions.”
Minasao gave me a strange, shrewd look. “What is your name, servant?”
“Pamon Kes, my lord. I am Hakatri’s armiger.”
He laughed, more startled than amused. “Of course! I had forgotten about you—Hakatri’s Tinukeda’ya squire.” Again, the considering look. “Yes, we will speak at greater length, Armiger Pamon—you and I.”
* * *
• • •
Full darkness had fallen as we reached the heart of Enki-e-Shao’saye, so all I could make out of the fabled place were the strange ways that the forest and the Summer City had grown into each other. In many places the largest trees had been made important parts of the city’s buildings, great beeches, oaks, and hemlocks festooned with platforms and linked by swaying bridges as nearly invisible in the leafy heights as spiderwebs. Elsewhere, stone buildings had been constructed around natural rocky outcrops in such a way that it was hard to say which parts had been built and which had stood there since the dawn of the world. Everywhere I looked, forest and city seemed to have grown or been woven together into one thing, so that it was nearly impossible to tell what was made by pure nature and what had been crafted by skillful eyes and hands.
Not even the dim, shadow-haunted passages of Nakkiga had seemed as strange to me as Enki-e-Shao’saye did that first evening. While I marveled at the beauty of the place, I was also astonished by how empty it seemed. In the past months I had seen many of the fabled cities of the Zida’ya people—Nakkiga, Mezutu’a, and even ruined, nearly deserted Kementari—but it was only in Enki-e-Shao’saye’s leaf-canopied streets and public places that I began to wonder whether Ineluki might be right, that my master’s people were losing their mastery over this world that had received us after the Garden’s destruction.
Goldenleaf House, the chief residence of Minasao’s clan, was built with five massive lightning oaks as its pillars. A wooden roof had been built between their trunks over the main platform, and two more levels stood above that, so that the house’s uppermost chambers looked out over the top of the forest.
My master, still insensible, was carried to an empty set of chambers. Even as he was set on the bed, healers surrounded him, though how many came to help and how many simply to stare because of the fame of his person and his battle with the Blackworm, I could not guess. I left him in their care and was conducted to a much more modest chamber. Still, I did not have to share it, nor would I have given much joy to anyone seeking company, since immediately after being relieved of my responsibility, I fell into a deep sleep.
In that slumber I again felt fiery pain, but this time it was not quite as terrible, and once more I could perceive something of the dream beyond the torment—a glimpse behind the veil. I found myself in a place, a strange place, all darkness and wind, with gleams of light that led me one way, then another, but remained elusive as foxfire. I saw figures around me that were dim and distant at first, but when I tried to catch up to them, drawing so close that I should have been able to see them clearly, they never became more than misty, indistinct shapes.
I am dead, I thought. I am Hakatri, I thought. No, I am Kes, the servant. But in this dream there seemed little difference between those two things: my master suffered and I suffered. I floated helplessly in that place of dark fogs and keening voices as wordless as the cries of birds. Then the pain returned, hot as a killing fever, scalding me mercilessly, and I awoke with a sharp cry, my face dripping with sweat.
A lone and clearly young Zida’ya stood in the doorway, concern written on his face.
“You are Pamon Kes?” he asked.
I nodded my head, but I was still shocked by the dream. “I was when I lay down.”
He did not know whether I was making a joke. Neither did I. “Lord Minasao has asked for you,” he said.
I felt a sudden chill. “How is my master?”
“A little better—or at least so I have heard. Come with me now.”
Relieved, I got up and followed him. I had assumed the young Zida’ya would lead me to Hakatri’s side, but instead we descended past the main hall and out into the forest garden that surrounded Goldenleaf House, then past several smaller buildings that lined the curving main road from the city gate. The streets still seemed almost deserted and I wondered why. Was it some ritual of the Goldenleaf Clan to spend the evening away from its public places? Not even Nakkiga had seemed so devoid of residents, though its subjects were imprisoned by countless strictures handed down from Utuk’ku’s throne.
At last we reached an extremely large oak standing by itself in a clearing, hung with a succession of ladders leading to its upper reaches. I could not climb them with the swift surety of my young guide, but I followed him as best I could. At the top, on a wide platform under a spread of branches thick with leaves, I learned for the first time that my questioning would not be done by Minasao alone: his mother Sunoyotta no-Sha’enkida was also waiting for us, dressed in simple but splendid robes of soft, coppery cloth. As with many older Zida’ya, her age could be guessed only by subtle signs, but I knew that she had guided the folk of the Summer City for many Great Years. Sunoyotta was one of the so-called Landborn, the first generation of Hikeda’ya and Zida’ya birthed in these lands after the flight from the Garden. She had the same pale purple hair as her son, swept up and piled high on her head, held in place with pins of lavender bloodwood. Her expression was cool but not unkind as her son Minasao presented me. I bowed low to her, then began the Six Songs to show my respect, but she stopped me after the first one with a graceful gesture. “That is salutation enough, Armiger.”
“Yes, let us not wa
it on ceremony,” said Minasao as I rose to my feet. “Tell us everything that has happened.”
“My master,” I asked, “—how is he?”
“Sleeping, but he spoke to the healers when he briefly awoke. He knows where he is.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks to the Garden. “That is good to hear, my lord. I will do my best to tell you all you wish to know.”
“First give the armiger a bench so he will have some comfort.” Lady Sunoyotta’s voice was deep, like the lowest notes of a harp. “And bring something so he can break his fast.”
The young Zida’ya who had led me there hurried out but returned a very short time later with a platter of honey-bread and forest fruits. I ate as slowly and politely as I could, though I was nearly starving; still, half my answers must have come while I was chewing.
I did my best to describe everything that had happened since the day the mortal Hernsmen had come in embassy to Asu’a. I could not guess why Sunoyotta and her son wanted to know so much about our travels other than their love for my master and sadness over his afflictions. Of course, they were relatives of Amerasu and Iyu’unigato, and thus of my master and Lord Ineluki, but that is true for most of the highest families in the Nine Cities. They stayed mostly silent as I spoke, though they exchanged many glances, and from time to time they asked me to say more about certain things, especially our time atop Sesuad’ra. To my surprise, though, the things they seemed most interested in were not that strange interlude, or the fight with the dragon, or even our time with Xaniko the Exile, who seemed to fascinate everyone else we met, but our journey to Nakkiga and the doings of my master’s brother during that time.
“Tell again what you recall of that first day inside the mountain,” Minasao asked me. “You said Ineluki met first with High Celebrant Hikhi, and you also mentioned Lord Yedade. Do you recall the names of any others?”
