Innocence burned to know these thoughts, but it seemed unwise to stay. He traveled to the male servants’ barn, looking toward the newly arrived company. Among them was the family of Tor, Jaska’s father. He could not discern Jaska herself, however.
He stretched out the walk, imagining himself battling the Nine Wolves for Jaska’s safety. His desperate energy would defeat them, and she would plight her troth with him, as they said here, accepting an offer of marriage. He imagined Joy at the wedding, and confusion shredded the daydream like morning mist.
His forehead itched. He reached up and rubbed at it. He felt as though a storm was coming, although the day was clear. He walked in a daze toward the coast and stood upon a rugged, grass-covered promontory resembling the broken fingers and knuckles of a giant who’d lost a battle with Old Torden. He watched the waves rushing against the beach of black sand.
Far away there were other waves washing up on a jagged limestone coast; and beyond the trees and bushes that whispered in the warm wind from the eastern sea rose the walls and sweeping roofs of Riverclaw, where the two Heavenwalls met. Above the bustle of the capital, the Purple Forbidden City rose serene upon foundations resembling dragons’ heads, and the tenders of the Windwater Garden, with its metaphorical map of the realm, looked up at a sudden breeze from the West.
Innocence took two steps backward. The vision cleared, and he saw again the cold coast. “You are still with me,” he said to the East. “The power is not gone.”
He reached out with hand and will and tried to shape the wind. Nothing happened.
Frustration made him kick the rock. “Why am I here, trapped in this barbaric place? Why can I not access the power? Where is Deadfall? Why is life like this?”
“Innocence?”
Innocence spun and saw that the novitiate Numi had descended from the church and was now a stone’s throw away. Innocence sighed and walked toward him. The superior man, Walking Stick had said, is calm and steady like the polestar, while the mean man swirls about in endless distress. Walking Stick had despaired of making Innocence a superior man.
“Are you all right?” Numi said. “From the bell tower I saw you walking down here, and you seemed upset. What was that you were speaking? It sounded strange.”
The superior man is honest and open; the mean man is furtive and afraid.
“It’s the chief language of a country called Qiangguo. It’s the tongue I was brought up with. I think in that language, most of the time. I didn’t even realize I was speaking it.”
“How many languages do you know?”
“Three. If you can count Kantentongue. I’m still working on that. Don’t you have work to do? Don’t let me hold you up. I’m coming back.”
“I’m fast on my feet. I’m supposed to ring the bell soon. That’s actually the other reason I sought you out. Turns out I’m not strong enough to squelch the ringing.”
“Um, I thought you were supposed to ring it.”
“I’ll explain as we go.” They walked. Innocence indeed had trouble keeping up with Numi. Numi said, “It’s a heavier bell than I thought. I’m used to our monastery bell. I know I’ll be strong enough to ring this one. But I can tell I’m not going to be able to snag the rope properly to prevent the clapper from whacking the bell again and again. The abbot likes a nice, clean sound. He likes a nice, clean everything. I don’t want a drubbing. Maybe you can help me.”
“You know, I grew up in a monastery. But we didn’t have a bell.”
“Well, all you have to do is let me ring it and then help me stop the clapper.”
“Guess I haven’t had anything to battle in a while. Lead on.”
They entered the church, with its stained-glass windows in the outline of a rising swan on the west and a descending swan on the east. As they strode through its shadows, passing pews and acolytes, Innocence asked, “Which way is up, I wonder?”
“The stairs are over there, past the votives and the chapel.”
“No, I mean which orientation of the Swan is considered the better one? Rising or falling?”
“They both represent different aspects of grace. The Swan ascending can show her on her way to quench the overbearing sun or rising from the dead after her downfall. The Swan descending may indicate the moment of her sacrifice, or her heavenly form bestowing blessings on us below. Every image of the church can be multiply determined. Such symbols are like keyholes through which stream many kinds of light, or like skeleton keys to open many kinds of doors. There is more than one kind of light, and more than one sort of door, because there is more than one kind of human, and more than one sort of worshipper.”
That this boy could suddenly sound like a theologian left Innocence speechless as they climbed the belfry stairs. At the top they encountered a windy nook, a precipitous view, a large iron bell, and a scowling abbot.
“You are supposed to be here, novice,” said Abbot Vatnar. The man looked to be forty, with black hair beginning to gray around the edges. His clothes were like another continent to the gray island of Numi’s simple robe, a regal swirl of red and gold, with white gloves to match the silver necklace of the Swan ascending. Stern eyes narrowed beneath a gold-threaded cap. “And who is this?”
“This is Huginn Sharpspear’s scribe, Father Abbot,” Numi said. “I needed someone to help me with the rope.” Numi gulped. “The bell is perhaps beyond my strength.”
“And you sought out secular help when there are so many acolytes below.”
“Beg pardon, Father Abbot, but everyone below is busy, and the scribe is not. I saw a way to resolve the problem without interrupting work.”
Abbot Vatnar shut his eyes, opened them. “Commendable. In the future do not risk a delay. But I can’t fault you in this case. You may proceed. Three clear rings.”
They managed to get Vatnar’s three rings with only a hint of a fourth, though the clapper yanked back on the rope like a wild horse. Innocence saw the crowd outside pause at their doings—their talk, their setting of tents, their preparations of food and drink, their arrangement of tables for games and horses for racing, and big rocks for the sport of stone-lifting—and turn toward the church. Innocence looked out toward the sea and beheld sea-stacks of dark, fang-like rock, and beyond them the ocean and a gray hint of other islands.
Was there something odd about the sky out there? Strange movements of tiny clouds against the path of their larger cousins?
Innocence felt Abbot Vatnar’s hand on his shoulder. “I said, it is time to find a pew, lad. We thank you for your help, but this is church territory.”
Innocence felt like a spy from an invading country as he bade good-bye to Numi and fled downstairs. He found a spot at the back. Here he could watch everybody as they came in.
When Jaska’s family entered, she took no notice of him, though he saw her looking this way and that. He wanted to wave, but a curious silence afflicted him, some reticence born of the church and his churning stomach. He had met, and never feared, a Karvak princess, but this farm girl made him afraid of something, his own wild voice, his future, her scorn, the possibility she was really a werewolf and would eat his heart for breakfast. Something. He daydreamed that monsters of the East, battle-mad temple lions, screeching nine-headed birds, and hopping vampires, would appear and only he, Innocence, could stop them. But for all his courage and cleverness the church would still be wrecked, with most people escaping, but he and Jaska trapped in an alcove, screened by fallen candlesticks, she holding him from primal need, he from an ancient instinct of protection, trying to silence their breaths but unable to silence their thundering hearts . . .
“Hey, this seat taken?”
“Um, no, uh, hello, Kollr.”
The chef’s assistant sat down, panting, dismissing Innocence’s daydream of sweat and candlewax with the stench of fish. “Thanks. I like to be here near the back. Had to run to make sure. Close thing. Making sure the hakarl is ready.”
“The what?”
“Oh, sure, you
wouldn’t know. You don’t know what you’re missing. It’s dried fermented rotted shark meat.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“You bet! Not everyone buries it in the sand the right way, but Loftsson’s cooks know what they’re doing.”
“Sounds astonishing.”
“You won’t forget it, trust me. Makes you strong.” Kollr paused. “You might want to pinch your nose the first time.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And down it with some aquavit.”
“I’m coming to love the stuff.”
“Anyway, thanks for the seat. Officially no one bothers you for being heathen, but it’s best not to be too obvious.”
Innocence remembered Kollr’s feud with Rolf. “Do you fully participate, in here?”
“No. I don’t take the sacramental rainwater and fish. There’s no rule against it, but if you do that people will assume you’re coming round to the Swan. Best not to disappoint them.”
“Makes sense. I’ll stay back here too.”
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you then? You don’t seem like someone who’d follow Kantening gods.”
Innocence’s religious training was of a practical bent; here is the order of Heaven, always seemed to be Walking Stick’s perspective, and here is how to follow it, never mind who’s in Heaven or why. The monks and the portrait of the Sage Painter had been a little more theoretical, however. “Let me think,” Innocence said. “The world comes together through the tumult of opposites, light and darkness, active and passive . . .”
“Hey, that’s what the skalds say too. Back before everything there was a clash of fire and ice . . .”
“Well, then out of all that there was an enormous stone egg, and out of it came a crazy giant guy named Pan-Ku . . .”
“No kidding! We have a giant named Ymir, big as the world . . .”
“Well, Pan-Ku spent thousands of years shaping the world-stuff around him, putting it into forms we know, and when he died of old age, his body formed the rest of what was needed for the Earthe. His blood became oceans and rivers, his breath became wind, his voice was thunder . . .”
“That’s uncanny! Our story is exactly the same. Well, except that our giant was an evil lunatic, and he was killed by our earliest gods and chopped into bloody pieces to make the world. Our gods are kind of violent.”
“I see. Well, our gods are kind of like, um, what’s the word? Guanliao . . .”
“A whatsa?”
“In Roil you’d say they’re ‘bureaucrats’? They sit around in Heaven and make decrees and make sure cosmic laws are followed.”
“Hey, kind of like the Althing. The stories say the Vindir would or did have talks at the base of the world-tree and figure things out. They’d argue a lot.”
“Would or did?”
“Time is weird for the Vindir. Sometimes the story goes that they’re mostly going to die in a huge battle against evil. Other times it’s like they already died, and it all comes round again. Kind of like the Swan.”
“That is different. I think the Heavenly Court just goes on and on.”
“Well, like I said, our gods are violent. Lots of battles. I mean, lots of battles. The best you can hope for when you die is to go to Orm’s Hall, where you get to battle every day and get brought back to life if you happen to get killed. That trains you for the day you get to fight evil and get slaughtered.”
“We think that if you’re virtuous for enough lifetimes, you can get a posting in Heaven. Maybe watch the cloud-horses.”
“It doesn’t sound that exciting.”
“We make do.”
By now more people had filed in, and Innocence and Kollr were loudly shushed. Mentioning clouds made Innocence remember the peculiar clouds he’d seen from the bell tower, but the thought was displaced by the singing of a choir.
He’d thought of Kantentongue as somewhat discordant, like the squawking of birds, but as the singers’ voices came together, they wove a tapestry of sound that enmeshed his mind. The rituals that followed, with their use of candles, raised hands, drawings in the air, reading from thick, ancient books, had a similar effect. Part observer, part participant, Innocence found the service dreamlike.
Jokull Loftsson delivered the homily, and though Innocence had experienced no trouble following the man before, he struggled to understand him now. There was a more musical cadence to his speech and an archaic texture to the words he read from the old prayer book. It was something about the structure of the church representing important virtues. Four great pillars stood for the four books of testimony that lay at the heart of the Swan’s scripture, but they also stood for the four virtues of endurance, moderation, insight, and faith. The chancel stood for both angels in the Creator’s realm and the prayers that winged up to that realm. Innocence remembered Numi’s multiple interpretations of the swan-shaped stained-glass windows. His mind swam with those swans. For a little while it was as though all the things he could see were symbols of things he couldn’t see.
Voices from near the entrance reminded him of something else he hadn’t seen.
“Where is Sharpspear going?”
“Doesn’t he know he’s late?”
“No time to walk on the beach. Won’t he offend Loftsson?”
Something nagged at Innocence like a premonition. Was it another vision, like the one his power had given him? Just nerves at participating in an alien ceremony? Either way, he whispered apologies and rose, weaving his way through the observers standing at the back, making his way outside.
Blinking in the light, he did indeed see his patron walking toward the dark sands as though nothing of importance were going on at the church. It seemed bizarre, at odds with everything else the man had done. Innocence took a few steps Huginn’s way . . . and froze.
Far out to sea, but now clearly visible, there flew a sky-blue object like an upside-down teardrop, with a much smaller gray structure hanging beneath.
“Not clouds,” he murmured.
It was not alone. Several similar shapes were approaching behind the first, and all were bee-lining toward the bay, ignoring the prevailing wind.
He’d seen such a shape before. He hesitated. Should he go advise Huginn?
Huginn’s words returned to him. I promise this, old friend. I will uncover the truth about Orb Dragons.
Far overhead he saw a circling peregrine falcon. He was sure he’d last seen it in a dream.
Speak of this to no one . . .
The superior man, when at peace, never forgets that disaster may come.
Be prepared to record what is said and done . . .
The superior man acts first, then speaks according to his actions.
Innocence acted.
He ran, but his feet carried him back into the church. There was no time to warn anyone, and who would believe the strange youth with the odd accent? And who among the mighty could he trust, if he could not trust Huginn? Even if trustworthy, they might not understand what was all too clear to Innocence. But Numi had shown him the way.
Innocence enlivened his chi and leapt through the ceremony amid shouts and screams. There was a scattering of votives. He was at the belfry stair in five steps. He could not similarly leap to the bell, and his use of such advanced techniques had tired him. Nevertheless he hurled himself upward, and though he was out of breath when he reached the rope, he coiled his hands within it and let his dead weight do the rest.
It was sloppy work, nothing like the clear tones beloved of Abbot Vatnar. But his actions were clear, if not his music.
“Invaders!” he bellowed at the priests and acolytes who rushed upstairs to stop him. “Invaders! To arms!” He let go the rope and clutched the window ledge screaming at Loftsson’s guards and any heathens who might be avoiding the church. “Invaders! Look to the sea! The Orb Dragons are ships of the air! To arms! To arms!” Even as his pursuit grabbed him, the falcon screeched into the bell tower and landed upon the ledge, regarding them all.
Far below, Innocence saw Huginn Sharpspear raising his hands in greeting to the warriors of the Grand Khan.
CHAPTER 9
A JOURNEY TO KANTENJORD
(as told by Haytham ibn Zakwan, gentleman-scholar of Mirabad)
In gratitude to the compassionate Creator of the universe, who set stars to spinning and worlds to breathing, and in memory of the prophet who testified to His works, I offer this account of my sojourn in the savage country of Soderland, in the Bladed Isles. If it does not enlighten, let it at least entertain.
Knowledge, whether gained by scholarly research or the billowing crash of a sky-balloon, is never wholly useless. This is fortunate for me, for I have crashed many balloons. Prior to the particular impact I am thinking of, one that was extravagantly hard on the balloon, the crew, and a small apple orchard, Al-Saqr was careening along in a gale, over an otherwise picturesque winter landscape rushing below us at absurd speeds. I was about to learn a great deal.
We had survived the storm that plagued us when first we arrived in these islands, and which had cost us many of our companions. But the effort of escaping that supernatural squall had at last overwhelmed the powers of the shaman Northwing, who although heroic was only human, and who now slept exhausted upon the gondola’s deck in the care of the warrior monk Katta.
We were now well south of that storm, blown into the country I hoped was Soderland, greatest realm of these isles. I had originally hoped to reach the capital of Svanstad, but by now I had little notion where we actually were.
Although we had altitude control thanks to the presence of the efrit Haboob, we could only maneuver by the expedient of testing wind direction at various heights. Prevailing winds were generally eastward at this time and ranged from brisk to bellicose. I was eager to land in any non-suicidal spot whatsoever, but not if the impact were akin to leaping from a galloping horse. I had no desire to explore this dangerous land with a broken leg. Nevertheless, a range of mountains rose ominously to the west.
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