by Jim Grimsley
We saw many wonders that day, but the appearance of the landscape was shifted slightly by the magic, so that all of it seemed surreal, even to me. The road to Illaeryn runs south along a gap between the Arth Hills and Nevyssan, the only passable part of that country. To the north runs Charnos Ridge, sheer and dark like a low range of mountains. We could have cut the ride even shorter had we headed straight across the ridge, but that is hard country for horses. With fewer riders I might have tried it. But neither mortal horse nor mortal rider was accustomed to riding in ithikan. The Jhinuuserret suffered the disorientation and blistering speed without much comment, but some of the others required help.
We rested once in the morning, in a dark ravine where the road runs beneath the flanks of old Shag Arth, the westernmost of the Arth Hills and one of the grandest. Autumn svelyra were in bloom as were groves of moonflowers waist high, running far up the hillside, along with a dozen other flowers I had never seen before, and ferns, greenberry bushes, shag oaks, vines like falls of emerald water. Under the swelling clouds the sides of the ravine rose over us like shadowy wings, leaf giving way to naked rock on the upper reaches of Charnos. The rain had broken for the moment, cool wind blowing from the west where the mountains hover. We noted this only when we stopped, since while we were riding the rain did not reach us. Lady Brun remarked, “The camp folk will be glad to see this,” and everyone laughed. I pricked up my ears, however, and did some listening.
The menace of the southern power seemed less. But this was not the result of any effort of mine.
We were close to Illaeryn, the High Forest, where the land rose sharply toward the mountains, a wild country of immense pines with haggard, twisted branches; of hemlock and junwort, faristae and cedar. Botanists say there are more families of trees and undergrowth, flowers and vines and other growing beings in Illaeryn than anywhere else in the world we know. In summer the smell of perfume and ripening fruit is staggering on the lower slopes, while upland the noonday is cool and brisk.
Illaeryn is a corruption of an older name, YY-Laeren, “God Walks”, which has been the name for this land since before the building of Cunuduerum. In “Luthmar,” the poet speaks of YY descending from the mountains into Illaeryn after she made Arthen. She walked the length and breadth of the region for a day. According to the poet, she liked everything about Illaeryn except that it lacked a good high hill, and so she struck up Vath Invaths, the hill on which Inniscaudra stands, along with her sister hills, Immorthraegul and Kellesar. She made the foundations of the Winter House, delving the deepest parts before inviting her Sisters into the Woodland to see the work she had begun. The Praeven in old times went on pilgrimages here, to find her footprints.
Kirith Kirin was happy on the ride. The night’s rest had done him good. While he had not been conscious of my late visit, he had ridden close all morning. Calm, lost in meditation of his own, hardly aware of the ride, one thought. When we rested he stood apart, staring into the stream that tumbled down from Charnosdilimur. Karsten offered him cumbre and he accepted it. She left him to his peace and he remained beside the flowing water for a while, scanning the clouds beyond the tangled treetops and jagged horizon. When he returned, he gave Karsten the signal to mount, and as the riders were returning to their horses, he sought me out. “We’re close to a place where we must stop again — close by your way of traveling, I mean. Karmunir Gate. We can’t pass through it until I speak to the stones.”
“What kind of stones should I look for?”
“You’ll know them when you see them,” he answered, mounting the Keikin.
I swung myself atop Nixva and leaned forward, speaking softly into his ear. Holding the jewels to my lips and breathing warm breath over them, I reorganized ithikan and we rode through the clouded forest along the western road.
Beyond Shag Arth, the road sweeps upward with Charnos Ridge and the forest grows dense and dark, impassable beyond the road because of the undergrowth and rocky terrain. We swept along this high road like winter air, a line of horsemen riding at high speed in a country where even common horsemen had been a rarity for generations. One could sense the awakening in the land, as if the trees themselves were aware of the coming of a long-awaited day.
Karmunir Gate stands at the crest of the road where the western land flattens in a high plateau while Charnosdilimur mounts skyward to a crest of sheer gray rock. Trees grow right up to the road in that country, forbidding forest even in daylight, leaving no hope of passage except along the road. The gate flanks either side, two tall, carven women of stone keeping vigilance beneath the curve of a high rock arch. The women were seated on simple, high-backed thrones. At first I did not recognize the pair, being caught up more in their artistry, the cunning carving and gleaming blue stone. But on the backs of the thrones were written Words in Hidden Writing, “These are the seats of Vaela and Vaeissyn until the Breaking of the Worlds.” Vaela and Vaeissyn are alternate and more ancient spellings of Vella and Vissyn.
The mortal lords immediately dismounted, gazing raptly at the two monuments. Unril called to Vaeyr to follow her to the base of one of the stones, but Vaeyr, who was an older man, vigorously built and still accounted a powerful soldier, shook his head. “We should stay well clear of these fierce stone women until Prince Kirith Kirin gives us leave to approach them. At least this is what I guess if any of my father’s stories were true.”
“Your father’s stories were true,” Kirith Kirin said. “No one should approach the stones.”
As far as the eye could see, there was no gate. Beneath the arch and between the vigilance of the statues was only air and some hanging vine that had crept beneath the arch along one side. But the eye cannot see everything, as the Sisters say. Beneath the arch much power lay dormant, like that at Sister Mountain in the circle of stones. From a distance it was hard to tell the nature of the magic that protected the gate, but magic was here.
Kirith Kirin had drawn his cloak round him and walked slowly to the arch, pausing at the base of each statue. Lord Vaeyr whispered proudly, “My grandfather was with Kirith Kirin when the Prince spoke to the stones to close Illaeryn. Now I’m here to see the High Country open again. I never thought I’d be alive to see the coming of days like these.”
“Who are the women in the statues?” asked Countess Duvettre.
“The Nameless Sisters, perhaps. Though there are said to be three of them, and here we find only two.”
I started to tell them who the women were myself, but Pelathayn caught my eye and I understood to keep my mouth shut. Kirith Kirin was returning from the arch. He gave word to Karsten to order the ride recommenced, and she did so. I mustered ithikan and we passed into Illaeryn.
Later, when we had covered a good deal of road, we stopped at a creek and ate a light, quick meal of bread, cheese and creek water. The water was cool. Every wind had a bite of upland. I found Pelathayn standing alone and took the opportunity to thank him in sparse words for his warning at the Gate. He acknowledged it curtly and I asked, in a low voice, “Why are there only two statues?”
“The third lady is forbidden this land.” He was picking bits of leaf out of his beard. “The reason is told in a very old story that few folks know. Someday in better circumstances I’ll tell it to you.”
By mid afternoon we could see the dark mass of three hills rising farther west, at their crown a glittering pile of stone.
I had seen Inniscaudra before, in Vissyn’s company, but we had traveled there in the Sister’s sudden fashion, nothing like this sweeping ride across gently swelling green countryside, trees rising slender and fair. Mist dusted the bright colors with gray, subduing the red linvern leaves, the golden infith, the duraelaryn whose leaves blanch white when they die, floating to the ground like immense moths.
From the eastern road one can see only the narrow flank of the House, the mass of the two towers, Domren and Ellebren, standing so close they seemed fused. The High Place was very high indeed, seen from afar, its summit crowned with horns
of silver. Domren, the Tower of Guard, rose but to Ellebren’s knee though it was much more massive, shining like a sun struck cloud while Ellebren was gray like rain. Closer and closer we rode as the sun descended, shadows lengthening behind us. The hills surrounded us soon thereafter and one saw the House only in glimpses.
From the south one can see the full breadth of the citadel, from the Deep Gate to the summit of the High Place, tower on tower rising as if out of earth’s heart. The road descended through Durassa’s Park, a garden-like valley through which the road traces its path before beginning the winding ascent around Lake Thyathe and Vath Invaths. We rode beneath the shadow of the hill with the sun sinking beyond the mountains that filled the new horizon. The summit of Ellebren was lost in clouds.
Day was darkening as the storm clouds renewed themselves. My hearing detected more, however. I felt eyes in the clouds, a circling vigilance, as if the road were watched. I felt the southerner brooding and stretching his thought toward me.
Alarmed slightly, I urged Nixva for more speed, touching the gem and singing intently, employing the cloak so that we rode hidden. We passed south of Vath Invaths, the riders exclaiming as the house unfurled itself like a marble banner, while I strained to detect whatever presences were watching us from above.
The veil over Arthen could not prevent a bird from seeing riders on the road, and if the bird flew under the will of Drudaen Keerfax, he would have news of our passage more quickly than I wished. We were riding beneath my own veil, however, no more visible than the blowing of air through the long grass. I could feel no sign that Keerfax was aware of me or of our passage, though I was certain he had kept watch on Inniscaudra all the years it had been closed. As we neared the vast house my apprehension increased.
We circled west and north and east again, beginning at last to mount the slope of Vath Invaths. We passed beneath Aegul Wall, a stade of towers and sheer smooth walls guarding the eastern approach to the hill. The road rose steeply but also broadened, and the horses made swift progress. We swept beneath the shadow of the Haldobran Cleft, the Deep Gate gleaming from shadow. The power of the House was slumbering, but I could feel it.
Kirith Kirin rode stride for stride beside me, eyes on the road or on the summit, his body lit from within as if power were kindling in him. He breathed the Illaeryn evening with keen delight, sitting straight as a scepter on the King Horse. He signaled to me to slow the ride and I did so, laying hands on the gem.
“Have you ever seen its like?” he asked.
“No, sir. A thousand giants couldn’t break down those walls.”
He smiled. “Maybe a thousand tried, those first days when even the rocks were young. These walls will stand until the last moments, it’s said.” He paused, gazing upward. “I want a little time. I want the House to get used to us.”
The slower pace did us good, I think. The others took deep breaths, as if wakening from sleep. Sounds of nightfall closed round us: calls of birds, wood crickets, the baying of hounds or wolves. When night was full, we lit torches at the base of the Tower of Guard. I could have made a better light by my art, but this would have been like a beacon to whatever eyes were watching the Vath Road. The veil I was maintaining over our passage was beginning to tax me after the day’s long work. The torch flames flickered, throwing faint light onto the foundations of walls and towers. We passed the bulk of Domren, our horses climbing the road that runs beneath the Aegul Wall toward Krafulgur Gate.
At Krafulgur the road passes between two immense horned towers whose sides rise smooth as polished glass from the rock of the hill. Krafulgur is no Gate at all to the eye, it appears to be a huge open arch spanned by a stone bridge. A portcullis that can be lowered is cunningly hidden within the stone. We rode beneath the towers, whose upper reaches were deeper shadows in the darkness. The horses’ hooves echoed beneath the broad arch. The road swung south in an ascending curve, and we climbed to the Syystren Gate.
This was the end of the journey. We stood holding our horses’ reins in the unbridled night, wind stabbing through our cloaks, an occasional raindrop on the cheek, a moment of moonlight awash in monkish cloud. Kirith Kirin was standing at the center of the cobbled road, turning a circle of dark metal over and over in his hand. He simply walked to the gate. Imral lit his path with a torch.
The Venladrii Prince halted below the outer pillars, and the flame of his torch sent shadows dancing against the walls, giving light for Kirith Kirin. The Prince strode to the side of the huge gate, and soon a blue light glowed. He spoke words I could not hear, and I knew by instinct I could not have heard them by my art, either. He was moving power himself.
He set the metal circle into the center of the light, which suddenly brightened.
As if the blood of a dead man became warm and began to flow sweetly in his veins, the power of the house began to move. Wind rushed up Vath Invaths from every slope, and above Inniscaudra the clouds were torn and the stars shone down on us, as if the night had never known storm or rain. From within the gate an age-old breeze stirred, sighed outwardly and kissed our faces. The outer gate split down the center and swung open. From within light was shining. On the high walls and in the towers of guard, one by one, watchfires began to burn.
The magic that preserves and guards the house becomes immanent when the Keeper of the Keys returns to the Citadel, but no one had bothered to warn me. All of Inniscaudra is built of magic of one kind or another. I stood there with the tatters of my spell of hiddenness fluttering around me. If there were indeed any watchers in the clouds, they had gathered the news for which they had been sent. The eye in the south would know we had entered the House of Winter.
At that moment, however, I hardly thought of Drudaen or spies or even of the others who were with me. I was struck dumb at the House, at the awesome energy I could feel moving within it. Eyes closed, listening to the singing that ran through the stones, a field of force in which the House was suspended. I could have stood there listening till all the moons rose together. We entered Inniscaudra with our heads craned this way and that. By the time the gates closed behind us, the Winter House was festooned with roch fire on every wall and parapet, and we who entered the Eldest House were singing from “Kimri,” “I am lighting the lamp that lights the lamps.”
2
The priests of Cunuduerum believed Inniscaudra to be the center of all worlds, and the House has many names in Jisraegen legend: House of Mur, Elder House, House that No Man Built, YYmoc, Mansion of Winter, Velyii, Mansion of the Fathers and Mothers, Sister-House, Edennavadrim and many more. Every Aeryaen people has stories of the House from as far back as their memories reach, including the Svyssn who call it the House of Light, and the Smiths in the Valley of Ice who remember the building of Inniscaudra, in which they participated. Even the Orloc helped to build the Deeps of the house and have songs concerning Inniscaudra, though few humans have ever heard them and returned to tell tales.
Long before there was a Queen or King there was a Keeper of the Keys. Nowadays under the Law, the Successor in Arthen held the Keys to Inniscaudra; a treasure greater, in its way, than any to be had outside the Woodland, now that Montajhena was no more than a ruin in the mountains.
Beyond the Syystren Gate was a wide moat and stone bridge, and beyond the bridge the wide lawn before the Halobar, the Hall of Many Partings, which was the entrance to the House. We crossed the bridge leading our horses behind us. A few of the others stopped to light torches, the flames reflected on the still water. On the bridge the support pillars were carved to resemble bearded men and women with long braids, all with their eyes closed, and in the mouth of each venerable sir or madam a fire flickered, sending out wavering light. Moonlight poured down from a tear in the clouds and the lawn was flooded with silver. The entry road, a mixture of stone, coral and pink sea shell, wound beneath silver menumen with silken leaves fluttering and dense green hedges neatly trimmed as if gardeners had manicured them yesterday. Lady Karsten murmured a song I had never heard, somethin
g about the House of Many Names, as we approached the glimmering entry court.
When I had ridden here before, even from a distance I had been awed by the mass of the place. Riding toward the Hall beneath the sky torn with storm, I was struck with wonder at the intricacy, the delicate stonework, the soaring towers, the window glass of jewel-rich colors, and the outer walls of the towers and fortifications shining smooth as glass, dark as blood.
No enemy has marched on Inniscaudra since Cunavastar made war on the YY-Sisters and laid waste to the northern portions of Illaeryn. No enemy will march on her again until the breaking of the age and no enemy will ever take her until the breaking of worlds, whenever that may be. I had a sense of walking on a height even from within the walls, the wind from the western mountains blowing the roch-fires, light and shadow dancing across the encrusted road. We halted beneath the broad stair leading to the Halobar Doors. Kirith Kirin had climbed to the seventh step. “Let your horses wander in the lawn,” he said quietly, “we won’t attempt to open the stables or any of the lower holds tonight. You’ll find the mortal horses are wonderfully invigorated by a day’s grazing on this grass.”
