Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  He stared with wide-open eyes, finding himself in some other place, and yet knowing he had not truly gone, for it was an unearthly plane and he was heady, disembodied almost.

  And all around him, growing brighter by the second, was a bizarre terrible glow. The world filled with an unnatural blending color, and that color was everywhere, in the imaginary sky, the very air. . . .

  Red.

  He looked at himself and saw his body, nude, and bathed in a radiance like a thousand Red Rivers of the Red Quarter, a thousand broken orbs of spilled light that was crimson, scarlet, vermilion, rose madder, flame.

  And suddenly before him, the form of red fire became concrete, as the red warrior clad in tongues of scarlet stood before him in the scalding blood coral vapor of his dream. And this figure was the source of all this impossible red, an angry fierce inferno.

  Who are you? Elasirr spoke, hearing his voice from an inner tunnel in his own mind. There was no fear in him, as always, instead, an openness. For, once again, the assassin flirted with his favorite lover, the unknown, the terror that was just beyond reach. Even in this dream state, he remained sardonic.

  The form of red light closed in on him, and he thought he could see great muscle-bound arms, traces of intricate armor of ages past, antique and remote, and terrifying. And the head of the red one wore a helmet with a closed mask of vermilion flame, which then opened, and he saw a face.

  The face of the red warrior was scarred with blood, and yet was beautiful like anger could be beautiful.

  And he who was rage incarnate opened his eyes.

  With a shock that pierced his heart for the second time, Elasirr knew him at last, the one Tilirreh who is Werail, the Passion of the world.

  You know me well, came a voice like the howl of cannon and the sharp smell of gunpowder, like the clanging of sword upon shield.

  What do you want, Werail? continued Elasirr insolently. You answer me now, but not when I had called upon the Tilirr in the Shrine. Why did you come instead of the lady of love?

  You are mine, replied the thunder. I come to you precisely out of your need.

  Elasirr, bathed in the hot flaming blood-light, threw his head back and laughed, undaunted in his dream. I need nothing, o Tilirreh! he exclaimed, especially not you!

  And yet, replied the warrior wrought of shadows, you called me, as you knelt before the altar. It was my face and none other you saw in the candle burning bright like your anger.

  The eyes of the red one flashed, and he reached out with a great fist of gathered blood and flame, and struck Elasirr in the chest.

  Agony!

  A billion splintered razors of scarlet and poppy, and Elasirr doubled over, clutching himself, falling down on his knees as angry fire-agony washed over him.

  Tell me you do not feel it now? said Werail, and his own laughter came booming over the whole world.

  It is your need, spoke the red man, it is your pain and fury and passion. It answers me loud and clear.

  But Elasirr, proud even now, spoke words that he knew had to be said.

  What of Tronaelend-Lis? asked the assassin. Tell me what must we do to save the City from a threat that is coming to us even now?

  Werail looked at him and through him. And then, the thunder dimmed, and was more like a whisper, You ask, and I will indeed show you. Behold, the Enemy of the City, your Enemy! He comes to you, and you must know him beforehand . . . Now look!

  And suddenly a vista stretched before Elasirr’s eyes. Still bathed in flame, he watched through a curtain of red the City that he knew so well, Tronaelend-Lis, from a bird’s-eye view.

  There were towers, bathed in the crimson world-glow, and walls of stone, and familiar pinnacles. And as a bird, he flew overhead, tumbling faster than thought, passing all familiar sights—Dirvan, the Palace, the heart of the wheel, the ring of the Arata, the Quarters, the Outer Fringes, the gates of grand stone.

  And outside beyond the city gates, together with the rising fiery disk of a sun that was like a drop of blood, came a serpent of pure darkness.

  The serpent started out on the horizon, silhouetted against the orb of the sun, and neared, gathering thickness, along the eastern road. It was a black army, Elasirr saw.

  The army numbered thousands. Greater than any known in their time, in the past hundred years. They wore armor of ebony, matte deadly iron, unpolished, and absorbing all light. They came mounted on tall great beasts that were not quite horse, not quite animal.

  They bore no banners, the slithering serpent army. Instead, at the head of the serpent, between the two eyes, rode a figure of congealed absolute non-presence, a vacuum.

  He is your Enemy, spoke Werail into Elasirr’s heart. And you already know his name. I show him to you now, because your need requires it.

  The figure of absolute dark nothingness reposed upon a platform wrought of beast and man and machinery, a weapon of war that was also somehow an extension of his non-presence.

  He is the one Vorn serves, the one whose name is not to be spoken, the Twilight One, whispered Elasirr. And a new wave of anger came to rise in him, while the eyes of Werail bore through him, somewhere on the other side of this panoramic view.

  His lens narrowed, and like a bird he flew closer, swooping in to the head of the darkness, to the seated figure shaped outwardly like a man, wearing the night around him.

  The Twilight One wore a helmet of fierce angular horror, matte black metal, and the visor was raised to show a skin darker even than that of Lord Vorn, features formed like carbon and coal and yet perfect in their shape.

  And as Elasirr looked on, his fascination turning cold even in this dream state, the face of the Twilight One slowly turned, and the eyes focused directly on him.

  They were red, the eyes.

  And yet, unlike the clean burning source of all red that was Werail, this was a sickly shadow-red, deep and low like a dying ember, just before the night closes in.

  And in that instant of meeting those inhuman eyes, Elasirr realized suddenly that the other had seen him, somehow.

  And with that awareness, he was slammed back into a dark vortex, and all around him was only the clean-burning red that was the Tilirreh.

  Werail! cried out Elasirr, forgetting pride. You must come back into the world, to help us in this struggle! The Enemy is stronger than I had ever imagined.

  But the red warrior stood before his mind’s eye, and his simmering passion began to recede as he too started to turn away.

  Wait! continued Elasirr, I entreat you, O Tilirreh! What must I do to persuade you to return?

  I may not return, whispered the voice of low thunder, as the shadow form of color light continued walking along an invisible plane, growing smaller, more distant. For you must first touch the Rainbow. And that will never be. . . .

  The red about him faded, and Elasirr heard his own voice raised in a howling cry, against his own volition, while the warmth inside him faded.

  What can I do? he cried to the skies of his own mind. What is it that remains for us, then, but oblivion? Why did you show me the Enemy and then leave me? Why?

  And then, in the swirling monochrome dusk, another form took shape, and a different voice sounded, like a great distant ocean of coolness.

  Because this Enemy is the Enemy of us all. . . .

  There was a pooling in his vision, a gathering of pixels, a swelling wave of rich light that moved in upon him, and he was suddenly swept away in a smooth great slow pattern that was different altogether.

  And the light about him slowly focused into a richness, and again he recognized it with a shock, for he had also seen it before. . . .

  Blue.

  And with it, came a sense of many layers, cool cerulean water flowing against his bare flesh, slivering azure along his chest, and soothing the angry passion that had surfaced with the coming of Werail.

  For now, Werail had gone. And in his stead was another.

  Koerdis.

  The Tilirreh of blue bore the sha
pe of a man that was ageless, neither young nor old, but like a boundless sapphire sea. His eyes were cold as ice and yet perfectly fair, for here was Truth incarnate.

  Look at me, spoke the Tilirreh with a voice like the passing of the ages. I am Order and Reason, and I also live within you. You called me from beyond the candle flame, as you called Werail, and because of your need, I am here. I am your pride.

  Elasirr met the gaze of the terrible peaceful eyes almost unflinchingly, although in truth, he burned at the contact of gaze to gaze, truth to inner self. Koerdis, he uttered, what greater truth can you tell me then? I have seen the Enemy but not the way to defeat him. I must know, O Tilirreh!

  The radiant impossible lapis ice of the eyes was upon him, chilling like winter, like a watery wind of color.

  You know the answer already, spoke the blue form, stilling him with its simplicity. You were shown the Enemy, and only you alone know what you can do. Face it, now!

  With that harshness, the reality was indeed there before him. And Elasirr recognized what it was that he had to do—what he could do, what he had been doing all along.

  And the great aquamarine waves crashed around him then, spilling like foam, like snowflakes of blue light against his eyelids, and with a shuddering breath, Elasirr was falling, drowning, emerging from the dream into truth and with it, at last, into oblivion.

  She had taken the first watch, and stared for a long silent time into the dimming fire that crackled soothingly in the night silence, and burned low.

  A few feet away, Elasand had fallen motionless before the fire, lying on his side with his face turned to the night. She knew when at last he had slept from the rhythm of his breathing.

  And in the distant shadows below the tree she saw the equally still form of the blond man. He lay on his back, his long pale hair swept all around him like a crown of dim light, and his breathing was stiller than silence.

  From where she sat, Ranhé could not tell if the one who was the assassin slept or simply chose to maintain silence.

  She was growing tired, because this day had seemed to last twice as long as normal, and because of her strange surge of memories. It always wearied her, this resurfacing of the past.

  The night deepened, and somewhere up ahead, a faint crescent arose in the silver silence.

  Soon, she should waken one of them. Or maybe, there was no need. Why bother taking a watch when there was no hope now for any of them? If any assassins lurked, they would do Elasand a kindness by cutting his life short.

  Depression set in like a stone within her lungs. She continued looking up, watching the half-moon, and for a moment it seemed to her that the quality of the moonglow began to change. . . .

  Very gradually.

  Barely noticeable. . . .

  The crescent shone, drawing forth a deeper richness than yesterday’s moon, despite the fact that it was waning.

  The richness coagulated, and blinking, she saw something different, unique in the quality of the luminescence, something vaguely alien and yet familiar.

  She could’ve sworn there was a faint human profile in the crescent moon. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, but it refused to dissipate from her stubborn tired vision. And the quality of the light had grown to an abnormal intensity, burning at her, blazing forth in a sudden explosion of glow, deep, intense—

  Yellow.

  The face in the crescent moon turned to her, and the sky all around transformed into an incredible field of yellow dots of brightness. Then, even more incredibly, sky and moon and stars seemed to rush with a dizzying speed down upon her head, so that Ranhé cringed involuntarily, and felt herself slipping backwards, sinking weightlessly, swooning against the cold grass floor of the forest.

  The wave of dizziness refused to go away. She lay, holding on to the earth below her. And suddenly, the face of the moon took on a distinct form, and was attached to a human body.

  He was limber and graceful, the man-in-the-moon, and he bounded down from the sky like a trickster, to stand before her. He had a radiant exuberant face crowned by a flowing mane of golden hair that stood up on its ends and extended into the sky of saffron, blending. . . .

  She thought there was a chorus of topaz wind that sounded like reed pipes, and it had grown so bright that this could not possibly be true night any longer, but a dream.

  Who are you? she whispered, lying on her back, watching the smiling glorious man who stood up above her, with hair wilder than sunlight. The vaporous dandelion filaments of his hair stirred like winds in all directions and swept the night away from the heaven.

  Must you ask? said the yellow god, the radiant Tilirreh who was indeed Dersenne. Sun and marigolds danced in his eyes, and he leaned forward then, obscuring her vision of all else.

  Oh . . . I know you now! uttered Ranhé, breath catching in her throat, and the sense of vertigo having grown stronger. For he was now right above her, his face floating above her head like a disembodied sun, his miraculous eyes inches and yet universes away—deep, soft, gentle.

  She wanted to drown beneath that face, sink so low into the earth that stalks of flax would grow forth and rise through her no longer human body upward, toward him, toward the ocher radiant cupola of sky.

  I am here, for you brought me here, sounded the voice of the Tilirreh, sweet as honey flowing in the sun, like drops of ancient amber.

  I called you? whispered Ranhé. But—I only called upon the lady of violet. Not for myself. For my Lord Elasand.

  For him and not for yourself? The face above her smiled, and she could almost feel his breath upon her cheek, like the summer wind flowing over a field of ripe wheat.

  I wanted him—fulfilled at last, she replied with wonder, half-conscious of her own words, for his sweet gilded lips were so nearby, distracting her, taking her away from all meaning.

  You! said the yellow being of Sacrament. It is you who has the need. Your fulfillment is merely on the other side of the sacramental candle, and you need only reach out to receive it!

  But what of my lord, who hungers for his immortal love? uttered Ranhé. What of the City that awaits our return without even being aware of our leaving, and whose hope we seek to bear with us home?

  But the golden one looked at her with utter softness, and again she heard his words, this time louder than the wind, and grand like the sky.

  Be fulfilled! Come to me, come closer, and touch the Rainbow! Only you!

  And with that, the face obscured all her vision, and she felt a soft and then infinite pressure upon her lips, a kiss that drew forth her breath, as she rose up to receive it and drown at the same time.

  And as she sank into pure liquid gold of the dream enveloping her, she saw the two eyes gaze deep within her own, fathoming her soul, and quickening her spirit with inspiration.

  Thus, Dersenne gave of himself the tiniest invisible splinter, and she would have it with her now, to take with her, to bear.

  Its name was hope.

  CHAPTER 15

  They left the Shrine of Light just as the dawning sun lit up the treetops, riding back to the City.

  There had been the strangest rich silence between them since the moment of awakening. And then, as they moved through the thicket of branches, retracing their steps, Elasand said, “Our quest has not been in vain. I dreamt of Laelith and she showed me what it is that lies before us.”

  “I, too, dreamt of Tilirr,” responded Elasirr, looking straight ahead as he rode. “And I was shown the face of the Enemy.”

  Ranhé remained silent for some moments after that. Ever since her eyes had opened this morning, there was a new brilliance she saw in all things, an edge to the light. The sun made her squint from a more than customary intensity, as though she could see something in it, a reflection of a face.

  And then she dared to say it.

  “I dreamt,” she began, “also.”

  And then, again, there was only silence between them.

  No need for words.

  All around, the forest
seethed with noisy fierce life.

  At the end of the second day of self-absorbed perfect silence, they had come out of the forest and upon the outskirts of Tronaelend-Lis.

  It was late evening, and the shadows were lengthening upon the wide gravel road. The City would be just ahead, another half hour through the flatlands, and soon they would view its familiar grouping of spires and structural forms from beyond the great walls.

  Something was amiss.

  Ranhé saw it immediately, and she pointed it out to the other two—the strange beaten-in patterns on the road, ever since they’d come upon the main City road that merged with another one from the east.

  There were tracks in the gravel, at times so heavy that it had pressed into the underlying muddy earth, and clumps of hard mud were turned up often, destroying the clean surface.

  Tracks of hundreds of beasts, great and heavy beyond belief, judging by their diameter. Tracks of wheels wider than two put together of the greatest load-cart this City had known. Imprints of numerous feet made by heavy metallic soles.

  An army had passed here.

  Elasirr stared thoughtfully at the ground as they rode, slowing down their pace. At times, he dismounted, and walked alongside, leading his great stallion, and at times he crouched before something particular he wanted to see up close. Once, he paused to compare a track made by his own mount’s hoofprint to a greater one in the road. It turned out that most of the beasts’ hoofprints were at least one half greater than the black stallion’s own. Ranhé did not want to imagine what manner of animal could make such tracks, for Elasirr’s stallion was one of the biggest she had ever seen.

  “How many?” asked Elasand grimly.

  “I’d say, seven thousand cavalry, two or three thousand on foot, the rest made up of army gear, and possibly a number of war machines manned by several hundred. Altogether, about ten thousand.” Elasirr’s expression was ice, and his dark brows drawn. He mounted and once again they rode.

  “Gods help us,” whispered Elasand. “It’s beginning, then.”