The Door Into Sunset

by Diane Duane

  He was sure he could.

  He made his way back to his lodgings, checked Blackmane’s and Pebble’s fodder, and made sure that their tack was arranged so that he could find it quickly in the morning. Then he went up to bed and lay there awake for a long time.

  Goddess among us, Lorn thought. Who knows how soon this might have happened, if I had stayed here after Father died? Maybe all it needed was that I be past a certain age, a certain stage, for it to start happening. Or just had to be willing to be known. He had to laugh slightly at that. Incessant seeker of action, lover of last stands and lost causes, of doing things, no surprise that it had taken him a long time to find out that what needed doing was to stop doing. What if I had come back sooner, and stayed a tenday, a month?

  And maybe I would never have had it at all, without Herewiss, and whatever he’s done to me.

  And Herewiss, of course, had become what he now was because Lorn had not become King. The coil of it all ran back and forth in time, interwoven with other strands he couldn’t even begin to understand, and Lorn knew Whose hand was on the shuttle. No matter. He had this piece of kingship, this feel, this power, now. The land recognized him, and was willing to help. Now all he had to do was make use of that help—get to Prydon without being noticed, and get into the city, and go looking for some things that were his.

  And perhaps find them... at which point a war might just become unnecessary.

  Always assuming that he could find those things in time.

  Hergótha, Lorn thought.

  He turned over and went to sleep.

  ELEVEN

  The Shadow was the first to have to claim

  It was in the right: and ever since, the

  claim has been suspect. For the Goddess

  didn’t need to claim—She knew.

  —d’Arien, Charestics

  “I could not find him,” Sunspark said.

  Herewiss looked at it. It sat in the chair, leaning back indolently, in the shape of that young red-haired woman, and its glance went back and forth from Herewiss, to Moris, to Andaethen, with—was that a trace of unease?

  “But surely you know the feel of his mind by now.”

  “I know it,” Sunspark said. “I’m telling you it wasn’t there. Something—” It shook its head. “There is another power interfering. Some other element, some other force.... Every now and then I would get a flicker of his thought: then—” It waved a hand. “Away again.”

  Andaethen shrugged. “We’ll assume he’s all right, then. Doing otherwise won’t help us. Are you ready for this evening?”

  Herewiss nodded. “I’ll be done with the job I have to do by sunset,” he said. “After that....” He smiled slightly. “It should be an interesting party indeed.”

  *

  Keep them from crossing, Eftgan had said to him. Just keep them on their side of the water for a few days more, until we’re less than four days away. I’ll manage the rest.

  It had been a pretty problem, despite the fact that there were only two fords near the city, and the bridge. Some of Cillmod’s forces were already on the Darthene side of the river, but only about a thousand. The main levies were still coming up from the south, where they had been billeted on the smaller towns—partly to guarantee those towns’ loyalty to the person presently sitting in the Throne, and partly because Prydon and its environs simply couldn’t support them all. They could spend little time near the city, and Herewiss made use of that fact. At first, parties of fifty or a hundred had started crossing the Arlid by whichever ford was convenient. Herewiss had put a stop to that, several nights ago, by doing one of the things he had always wanted to do before he had the Fire: by becoming the river.

  It was not a thing that one did suddenly. A long time, he had spent in his circle of Fire up in his room, dissolving his physical self away in the sense and flow of Arlid’s water; feeling the rocks of the river-bottom, every weed that grew and waved there, every fish and bug; and the water itself, endlessly malleable, but stubborn enough in its way to wear down rock, let alone flesh. Herewiss let it wear him away so—that was part of the price to be paid for a wreaking like this—until there was little left of his consciousness but that sense of flowing past the restraint of banks, himself shouldering himself aside in whirlpool and eddy, running shallow over Daharba ford all in a roil, barely four or five feet between surface and bottom: then running under the walls of Prydon, and dividing in turmoil around the piers of the great bridge before reuniting to run over the ford at Anish, and further north. Though gravity and the Sea tugged at him, whispering of final dissolution and commingling in the great deeps, Herewiss carefully confined his consciousness to that single stretch of water. The Arlid was not a quiet river, this far down its course. It might seem placid in its wider stretches, but the water ran fast and deep, and anyone who took its seeming placidity for granted was likely to be nastily surprised.

  It took him half a day to become the river properly: and it became him, as a result, though not so completely. It found his complexities and commitments fascinating, being so different from its own—a river makes few promises, except to flow downhill—and took them on gladly for a short period, with what Herewiss found was a rather shocking enthusiasm. The result was that the first time a group of Arlene mercenaries tried to ford the river at Daharba, they and their escort of regulars were sucked down by a sudden whirlpool, and about half of them did not come up again, except several days later, bloated.

  Their deaths were on his head, and Herewiss grieved over them; but a lesser number of deaths now could possibly prevent a great many more later, and he hardened his heart to what he and the river were doing. It was a strain to keep the Firework fueled day and night, but the same thing happened again the next day, at Anish ford and Daharba both, and the next as well. It happened to fewer and fewer soldiers, though. Rumor had traveled fast, as Herewiss expected, and company after company of mercenaries and regulars both arrived at Prydon on the western side, heard the news—or saw it happen themselves—and refused to cross. Short of moving the whole army down to Hasmë, there was nothing the commanders could do but march men up to the City and across the bridge. This made a fine bottleneck, what with the commercial traffic that used the bridge as well, and there was no moving large groups across it quickly. Considering that the Arlenes would have about five thousand people to move within the next few days, all this suited Herewiss well. Pressure from Prydon might insist that the troops should keep trying, and the fords might presently be proved safe. That didn’t matter: Herewiss now had the bridge to deal with.

  Nearly a tenday ago, now, he had strolled across the bridge with Sunspark, had leaned there on the broad handsome parapet, halfway across, and watched the curl and hiss of the brown water running under the graceful curve of the huge granite piers. It was twenty cubits wide and three hundred cubits long, of which two hundred fifty cubits was span, with five sets of arched pillars beneath on either side. All those arches were the circular and semi-elliptical kinds that had been popular in buildings in those days. Besides being beautiful, they bore weight better than some other kinds of arches: which was a problem for Herewiss. He was going to have to convince this bridge to fall down, and one so stubborn-built was going to be a problem.

  A bridge’s nature is to bear, he thought, gazing at the Fire as it leapt around him, and to keep doing so despite whatever forces are being brought against it. If it should decide to resist what Herewiss was going to require of it—its suicide, essentially—he would have to “kill” again.

  He closed his eyes and composed himself. That was another thing he had been having some difficulty with—this ongoing discovery that almost everything seemed alive, at least to the Fire. He shrugged and went looking inside him for that long hallway inside the old Hold in the Waste.

  There seemed to be a faint breeze blowing along it as he stood there for a second, getting his bearings. Black floor, black ceiling and walls, all polished, reflected him dimly; light struck down
in a bright shaft some ways down the hall, from one of the many skylights that pierced through the high ceiling of the Hold at unpredictable intervals. He started to walk, touching the stone briefly in greeting as he went. This place he had always known was somehow conscious, even before he came into his Fire; it had watched him, waited, even assisted him—so he sometimes suspected. Certainly it did so now.

  He didn’t have to wander long before he found the doorway that led, in mind, to one end of the Bridge. Herewiss walked through it and out onto the roadbed, looking down for a moment at the hexagonal paving-setts, and the ancient mortar holding them together. As usual, the mortar was even stronger than the stone, and still getting stronger every day: it wasn’t nearly old enough, at a mere six centuries, to have started deteriorating significantly. One more problem, Herewiss thought, and strolled out into the middle of the bridge again, standing where he had stood the other day. The grace of the thing, the age of it, stirred his guilt anew at the thought of having to destroy something so beautiful and venerable. And worse, he was going to have to pull it down in some way that would leave it wholly unusable, but otherwise mostly unhurt, so that it could be put up again later—no point in wasting the effort of hundreds of people in quarrying and shaping the stone.

  He leaned there on the stone and let his selfness sink down into it, feeling the webwork of the mortar holding the huge blocks of stone together; and deeper still, feelng the way the stones pushed against one another, the transmission of stresses. He had done this with a mountain, not too long ago, but this was more difficult, possibly because the bridge was made by human beings, rather than grown by the Goddess: the scent of artifice clung about it. And so did that sense of consciousness. The bridge remembered the hands that chipped its stones out of a mountainside, that sank the cofferdams and set in its piers, that bound it with mortar and stained it with wine and blood when it was done—the builder’s blood, still remembered, a hot hurting splash. The bridge was surprised to have been hurt. Until then it had not been aware of having been—

  And not much else to do since then, Herewiss said. But bear—

  The bridge considered this a moment. What else is there? Yet for a moment it seemed to look back in time, toward moments of such strangeness or brightness that even a bridge would notice: a parade with banners and beaten drums, a garland left by a young boy over one of the bridge-posts as a present, and one afternoon when a young woman came and leaned over the other parapet of the bridge, looking northward toward the Sea, stroking the stone absently, smiling down at it once. Herewiss felt the darkness of her cloak, felt the light hidden in it, like the stars, and felt the bridge’s awe. It knew Who had grown its stones, and Who loved them, like everything else She had made.

  I am on Her business, Herewiss said.

  Who isn’t? What’s needed?

  The King is coming back, Herewiss said.

  He felt the stones almost tremble. Certainly the stresses of the bridge shifted against one another, for a moment. Can even a thing made of rocks come to care about such a thing? Herewiss thought—and found that it could. It was the earth that most needed a King or Queen, the one who would make it more than dead ground, but something that lived and brought forth fruit. Stone, it seemed, knew about that: knew what it couldn’t be, but what common dirt could. If stone were good, if it let the world work on it, it could aspire to be dirt some day, and alive: not this shadowy life, but something more—

  The King’s enemies are coming as well, Herewiss said. The enemies will be coming from the city: the King and his people, from over the river.

  This time the bridge really did tremble, and Herewiss hoped that the tremor wouldn’t transfer into the “real” world. So—

  Herewiss took a breath. I think you must lie down for a little while.

  He was ready for the fear that would follow such a statement, the resistance. There was a long pause...

  …and the stone began to shake again, in real earnest this time, mortar cracking and every stress-pattern twisting out of shape.

  BUT NOT RIGHT NOW! Herewiss cried, clinging to its parapet.

  Within a few seconds the bridge lay quiet under him again. Herewiss half-leaned, half-clung there a moment more, trying to sort out the terrible confusion of feelings running through it, of terror and acquiescence and sorrow for a long life suddenly about to be lost. And we’ll put you back together again afterwards, Herewiss said, stroking the stone. For pity’s sake, don’t think we’d ask, otherwise!

  They were quiet for a good while, together. Then Herewiss set his Fire deep into the structure of the bridge, bound it into the stone, and leaned on the parapet again. That’ll do it, then. Until tonight...

  So soon?

  It was hard. Herewiss nodded.

  The stone sighed. It was a sound he had heard before, the small ticking and relaxing sounds that a bridge made in the early evening, after a long day of sunlight.

  I will bear this too.

  There was nothing he could do but pat the stone of the parapet, the way one warrior reassures another of his company as they look over the hill to where the enemy waits the chance to kill them both. For a good while Herewiss leaned there before straightening up and making his way back down the span, to the door into the Hold.

  *

  Evening came, and Herewiss dressed himself for a banquet. Not the Brightwood livery, tonight: he was host for this party, not bound by protocol—and besides, his father was still teasing him about the gravy on his surcoat, no matter that Herewiss had gotten the stain out tracelessly. This one was dark green velvet, and over the tunic—his one concession to present style—he wore a heavy, broad-linked silver chain with one gem mounted sidewise in it, an oval dark cabochon sapphire as long as the first joint of his thumb. It was the one he had pried out of the chain of the Principality when he was nine, levering it out of its setting with a kitchen knife to find out whether it was real or paste. His father had given it to him as a present when he came of age, and had poked him and said, laughing, “Now you just leave the rest alone until it’s your turn!” Hose, and buskins in dark-green leather to match, and Khávrinen over his shoulder; that would do.

  Tonight there was none of the dimness he remembered from his last visit to the banquet hall. All the torchieres were ablaze, eight of them on each side of the room. The tables were set out along the sides of the room, with great branched candlesticks on them, and the sunset came in through the great windows flung open; cool air and a breath from the rose gardens flowed in too, mingling with the waft of aromatics from the braziers, and the tangle of savors from the food. Herewiss walked around once, while they were setting up, and had his hands slapped once or twice by Andaethen’s possessive cooks as they laid out the roast geese and the boned smoked beef. He didn’t dare do anything but stare at the centerpiece, a huge game pie four feet high, in the shape of a sailing galleon, with gilt pastry sails and the Eagle banner, done in sugar plate, flying from the foremast.

  Andaethen was wandering around supervising languidly, in a drift of smoke-colored silk gauze over a tight-bodiced dark grey gown. “Going mate-catching tonight, are we?” Herewiss said as he came up to her, admiring the view of her bodice.

  Andaethen laughed at him. “It’s as well sometimes to be a distraction,” she said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  Herewiss merely smiled as she wandered off again. Andaethen knew that he had something planned for later that evening, but Herewiss had chosen not to give her details, and Andaethen agreed with his reasons. The Queen knew—that was enough. That morning Andaethen had shown him her own map, rather better drawn than his, that showed Eftgan’s nearest levies, some six thousand men and women in all, leaving the Kings’ Road just west of Awyn, and cutting north and south into the townlands of Adjaveyn and Lorbit. Any force trying to meet and engage them, at this point, would itself be divided and easier to deal with; and there were no Arlene forces close enough to try it, due to Herewiss’s work at the fords.

  There were mor
e levies coming still, from down south in Darthen: but Herewiss had looked with most interest at the first group. They had left their homes earliest, and come the furthest, those thirty-five hundred in the northward-pushing group. They were the Brightwood levies, and his father led them. Others of his family, various aunts and cousins, marched or rode with them, along with many of his neighbors from the Woodward. But it was that lean, balding figure that he thought of most—not exactly the picture of chivalry, or of a great lord either, in his patched-together armor and plain surcoat. But Hearn would let no one else carry the Phoenix banner, and he was good at keeping hold of it. “Old Ironass,” his people had called him for a long time now. Herewiss remembered the first time he had called his father that himself, at age seven, and the discovery that that part of him was not made of iron yet. He smiled again at the memory, and at the realization of how much he missed his father...

  The guests were starting to arrive. Herewiss went to the doors of the banqueting hall to greet them: prominent Darthenes living in the city, Arlenes of the Four Hundred with members of their families, and merchants and traders visiting from elsewhere. Herewiss had left the guest list to Andaethen, knowing she would have her own agenda for this dinner. His job was to smile and make conversation: he was an excuse, he knew, to allow Andaethen, and through her the Queen, to assess the mental and political state of the Arlenes on the eve of war. If he should happen to overhear something interesting, either in someone’s words or their thoughts, that would be useful as well.